The material is put in the public domain. The language here is British English. Words and sentences are somewhat modified too. The preface is rooted in Frank Baum's introduction of 1897, but it is abridged. A few mentions at the third and last part of it have been added. One story, about Little Bun Rabbit, has been left out.

Rhymes and rhymed jingles and songs are fine things. They can assist fanciful creations of child imagination. What is more, they easily assist in assessing heritage parts.

Many delightful things which are impressed on very young minds may cling to them later on. And
the snatches sung in the nursery are hardly ever forgotten. They may often be remembered,
and they can bring back with them myriads of slumbering feelings and half-forgotten
images.

One generation is linked to another by the everlasting spirit of song; and
ballads of the nursery are readily brought from memory's recesses to amuse our children or
our grandchildren.

The collection of jingles we know and love as the "Melodies of Mother Goose" is
drawn from many sources. They are, taken altogether, a rather merry union of rhyme, wit, pathos,
satire and sentiment, and many of them contain reflection, wit and melody. Some of
the older verses are offshoots from ancient folk lore songs, and have descended to us
through many centuries.

Origins

Both France and England claim Mother Goose for their own:

About the year 1650 there appeared in London a small book named "Rhymes of the
Nursery; or Lulla-Byes for Children". In it were many of the pieces that have been handed
down to us; but the name of Mother Goose was not then used. In that edition were the
rhymes of "Little Jack Homer," "Old King Cole," "Mistress Mary," "Sing a Song of
Sixpence," and "Little Boy Blue."

In 1697 Charles Perrault published in France a book of children's tales entitled
"Contes de ma Mere Oye," and this is really the first time we find authentic record of the
use of the name of Mother Goose. Perrault's tales comprised "The Sleeping Beauty," "The
Fairy," "Little Red Riding Hood," "Blue Beard," "Puss in Boots" "Riquet with the Tuft,"
"Cinderella," and "Little Thumb"; eight stories in all. On the cover of the book was
depicted an old lady holding in her hand a distaff and surrounded by a group of children
listening eagerly. Mr. Andrew Lang has edited a beautiful English edition of this work
(Oxford, 1888).

The earliest English edition of Mother Goose's Melodies that is authentic was
issued by John Newbury of London about the year 1760, and the first authentic American
edition was a reprint of Newbury's made by Isaiah Thomas of Worcester, Mass., in
1785.

None earlier editions contained all the rhymes so well known at the present day,
for every decade has added its quota to the mass of jingles attributed to "Mother Goose."
It is to be hoped that the real gems of the collection will live and thrive for many more
ages.

Why Frank Baum formed tales out of these old rhymes

Some of these nursery rhymes are quite complete in themselves, telling some story
tersely and perhaps rudimentary, but that is OK with children. For jingles which are but bare suggestions, leave the imagination to weave in details of the story. That is just what Frank Baum did. The results represent his imaginative carving. What Baum thought up, is one man's notions only. There are many other thought-threads to use than the ones he came up with. I daresay that what the various jingles meant to people in ages past, was not as
sentimental as the Baum tales.

The psychologist Tony Buzan has demonstrated that we are not much alike when it comes
to "knitting" ideas (mental associations) to the basic words in our lives [Buzan and Buzan 2010:37-40]. Our idea-associations differ a whole lot. Thus, you can unfold yourself atop the jingles if you feel for it; unfurl your sails when conditions are good. Make sure they are.

Sing a Song of Sixpence

Sing a song of sixpence, a handful of rye,
Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing,
Was not that a dainty dish to set before the king?

Gilligren was an orphan, and lived with an uncle and aunt who were very unkind to
him. They cuffed him and scolded him on the slightest provocation, and made his life very
miserable indeed. Gilligren never rebelled against this treatment, but bore their cruelty
silently and with patience; although often he longed to leave them and seek a home amongst
kinder people.

It so happened that when Gilligren was twelve years old the king died, and his son
was to be proclaimed king in his place, and crowned with great ceremony. People were
flocking to London from all parts of the country to witness the festivities, and the boy
longed to go with them.

One evening he said to his uncle,

"If I had sixpence I could make my fortune."

"Pooh! nonsense!" exclaimed his uncle, "a six pence is a small thing. How then
could you make a fortune from it?"

"That I cannot tell you," replied Gilligren, "but if you will give me the sixpence
I will go to London, and not return till I am a rich man."

"The boy is a fool!" said his uncle, with anger; but the aunt spoke up
quickly.

"Give him the money and let him go," she said, "and then we shall be well rid of
him and no longer have to feed and clothe him at our expense."

"Well," said her husband, after a moment's thought, "here is the money; but
remember, this is all I shall ever give you, and when it is gone you must not come to me
for more."

"Never fear," replied Gilligren, joyfully, as he put the sixpence in his pocket,
"I shall not trouble you again."

The next morning he cut a short stick to assist him in walking, and after bidding
goodbye to his uncle and aunt he started on his journey to London.

"The money will not last him two days," said the man, as he watched Gilligren go
down the turnpike road, "and when it is gone he will starve to death."

"Or he may fall in with people who will treat him worse than we did," rejoined the
woman, "and then he'll wish he had never left us."

But Gilligren, nothing dismayed by thoughts of the future, trudged bravely along
the London road. The world was before him, and the bright sunshine glorified the dusty
road and lightened the tips of the dark green hedges that bordered his path. At the end of
his pilgrimage was the great city, and he never doubted he would find therein proper work
and proper pay, and much better treatment than he was accustomed to receive.

So, on he went, whistling merrily to while away the time, watching the sparrows
skim over the fields, and enjoying to the full the unusual sights that met his eyes. At
noon he overtook a carter, who divided with the boy his luncheon of bread and cheese, and
for supper a farmer's wife gave him a bowl of milk. When it grew dark he crawled under a
hedge and slept soundly till dawn.

The next day he kept steadily on his way, and toward evening met a farmer with a
wagon loaded with sacks of grain.

"Where are you going, my lad?" asked the man.

"To London," replied Gilligren, "to see the king crowned."

"Have you any money?" asked the farmer.

"Oh yes," answered Gilligren, "I have a sixpence."

"If you will give me the sixpence," said the man, "I will give you a sack of rye
for it."

"What could I do with a sack of rye?" asked Gilligren, wonderingly.

"Take it to the mill, and get it ground into flour. With the flour you could have
bread baked, and that you can sell."

"That is a good idea," replied Gilligren, "so here is my sixpence, and now give me
the sack of rye."

The farmer put the sixpence carefully into his pocket, and then reached under the
seat of the wagon and drew out a sack, which he cast on the ground at the boy's
feet.

"There is your sack of rye," he said, with a laugh.

"But the sack is empty!" remonstrated Gilligren.

"Oh, no; there is some rye in it."

"But only a handful!" said Gilligren, when he had opened the mouth of the sack and
gazed within it.

"It is a sack of rye, nevertheless," replied the wicked farmer, "and I did not say
how much rye there would be in the sack I would give you. Let this be a lesson to you
never again to buy grain without looking into the sack!" and with that he whipped up his
horses and left Gilligren standing in the road with the sack at his feet and nearly ready
to cry at his loss.

"My sixpence is gone," he said to himself, "and I have received nothing in
exchange but a handful of rye! How can I make my fortune with that?"

He did not despair, however, but picked up the sack and went on his way along the
dusty road. Soon it became too dark to travel farther, and Gilligren stepped aside into a
meadow, where, lying down on the sweet grass, he rolled the sack into a pillow for his
head and prepared to sleep.

The rye that was within the sack, however, hurt his head, and he sat up and opened
the sack.

"Why should I keep a handful of rye?" he thought, "It will be of no value to me at
all."

So he threw out the rye on the ground, and rolling up the sack again for a pillow,
was soon sound asleep. When he awoke the sun was shining brightly over his head and the
twitter and chirping of many birds fell on his ears. Gilligren opened his eyes and saw a
large flock of blackbirds feeding on the rye he had scattered on the ground. So intent
were they on their feast they never noticed Gilligren at all.

He carefully unfolded the sack, and spreading wide its opening threw it quickly
over the flock of black birds. Some escaped and flew away, but a great many were caught,
and Gilligren put his eye to the sack and found he had captured four and twenty. He tied
the mouth of the sack with a piece of twine that was in his pocket, and then threw the
sack over his shoulder and began again his journey to London.

"I have made a good exchange, after all," he thought, "for surely four and twenty
blackbirds are worth more than a handful of rye, and perhaps even more than a sixpence, if
I can find anyone who wishes to buy them."

He now walked rapidly forward, and about noon entered the great city of
London.

Gilligren wandered about the streets till he came to the king's palace, where
there was a great concourse of people and many guards to keep intruders from the
gates.

Seeing he could not enter from the front, the boy walked around to the rear of the
palace and found himself near the royal kitchen, where the cooks and other servants were
rushing around to hasten the preparation of the king's dinner.

Gilligren sat down on a stone where he could watch them, and laying the sack at
his feet was soon deeply interested in the strange sight. Presently a servant in the
king's livery saw him and came to his side.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, roughly.

"I am waiting to see the king," replied Gilligren.

"The king! The king never comes here," said the servant; "and neither do we allow
idlers about the royal kitchen. So depart at once, or I shall be forced to call a guard to
arrest you."

Gilligren arose obediently and slung his sack over his shoulder. As he did so the
birds that were within began to flutter.

"What have you in the sack?" asked the servant.

"Blackbirds," replied Gilligren.

"Blackbirds!" echoed the servant, in surprise, "well, that is very fortunate
indeed. Come with me at once!"

He seized the boy by the arm and drew him hastily along till they entered the
great kitchen of the palace.

"Here, good baker!" the man called, excitedly, "I have found your
blackbirds!"

A big, fat man who was standing in the middle of the kitchen with folded arms and
a look of despair on his round, greasy face, at once came toward them and asked eagerly,
"The blackbirds? are you sure you can get them?"

"They are here already; the boy has a bag full of them."

"Give them to me," said the cook, who wore a square cap, that was shaped like a
box, on his head.

"What do you want with them?" asked Gilligren.

"I want them for a pie for the king's dinner," answered good baker; "His Majesty
ordered the dish, and I have hunted all over London for the blackbirds, but could not find
them. Now that you have brought them, however, you have saved me my position as cook, and
perhaps my head as well."

"But it would be cruel to put the beautiful birds in a pie," remonstrated
Gilligren, "and I shall not give them to you for such a purpose."

"Nonsense!" replied the cook, "the king has ordered it; he is very fond of the
dish."

"Still, you cannot have them," declared the boy stoutly, "the birds are mine, and
I will not have them killed."

"But what can I do?" asked the cook, in perplexity; "the king has ordered a
blackbird pie, and your birds are the only blackbirds in London."

Gilligren thought deeply for a moment, and conceived what he thought to be a very
good idea. If the sixpence was to make his fortune, then this was his great
opportunity.

"You can have the blackbirds on two conditions," he said.

"What are they?" asked the cook.

"One is that you will not kill the birds. The other condition is that you secure
me a position in the king's household."

"How can I put live birds in a pie?" asked the cook.

"Very easily, if you make the pie big enough to hold them. You can serve the pie
after the king has satisfied his hunger with other dishes, and it will amuse the company
to find live birds in the pie when they expected cooked ones."

"It is a risky experiment," exclaimed the cook, "for I do not know the new king's
temper. But the idea may please His Majesty, and since you will not allow me to kill the
birds, it is the best thing I can do. As for your other condition, you seem to be a very
bright boy, and so I will have the butler take you as his page, and you shall stand back
of the king's chair and keep the flies away while he eats."

The butler being called, and his consent secured, the cook fell to making the
crusts for his novel pie, while Gilligren was taken to the servants' hall and dressed in a
gorgeous suit of the king's livery.

When the dinner was served, the king kept looking for the blackbird pie, but he
said nothing, and at last the pie was placed before him, its crusts looking light and
brown, and sprigs of myrtle being stuck in the four corners to make it look more
inviting.

Although the king had already eaten heartily, he smacked his lips when he saw this
tempting dish, and picking up the carving-fork he pushed it quickly into the
pie.

At once the crust fell in, and all the four and twenty blackbirds put up their
heads and began to look about them. And coming from the blackness of the pie into the
brilliantly lighted room they thought they were in the sunshine, and began to sing
merrily, while some of the boldest hopped out on the table or began flying around the
room.

At first the good king was greatly surprised; but soon, appreciating the jest, he
lay back in his chair and laughed long and merrily. And his courtiers and the fine ladies
present heartily joined in the laughter, for they also were greatly amused.

Then the king called for the cook, and when good baker appeared, uncertain of his
reception, and filled with many misgivings, His Majesty cried,

"Sirrah! how came you to think of putting live birds in the pie?"

The cook, fearing that the king was angry, answered,

"May it please your Majesty, it was not my thought, but the idea of the boy who
stands behind your chair."

The king turned his head, and seeing Gilligren, who looked very well in his new
livery, he said,

"You are a clever youth, and deserve a better position than that of a butler's
lad. Hereafter you shall be one of my own pages, and if you serve me faithfully I will
advance your fortunes with your deserts."

And Gilligren did serve the king faithfully, and as he grew older acquired much
honor and great wealth.

"After all," he used to say, "that sixpence made my fortune. And it all came
about through such a small thing as a handful of rye!"

The Story of Little Boy Blue

Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn.
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn;
Where's the little boy that minds the sheep?
He's under the haystack, fast asleep!

There once lived a poor widow who supported herself and her only son by gleaning
in the fields the stalks of grain that had been missed by the reapers. Her little cottage
was at the foot of a beautiful valley, on the edge of the river that wound in and out
among the green hills. Although poor, she was contented with her lot, for her home was
pleasant and her lovely boy was a constant delight to her.

He had big blue eyes, and fair golden curls, and he loved his good mother very
dearly, and was never more pleased than when she allowed him to help her with her
work.

And so the years passed happily away till the boy was eight years old, but then
the widow fell sick, and their little store of money melted gradually away.

"I don't know what we shall do for bread," she said, kissing her boy with tear-wet
chins, "for I am not yet strong enough to work, and we have no money left."

"But I can work," answered the boy; "and I'm sure if I go to the squire up at the
Hall he will give me something to do."

At first the widow was reluctant to let him go there, since she loved to keep her
child at her side, but in the end she decided to let him go to see the squire.

Being too proud to allow her son to go to the great house in his ragged clothes,
she made him a new suit out of a pretty blue dress she had herself worn in happier times,
and when it was finished and the boy dressed in it, he looked all right. Finally she
brushed his curls and placed his big straw hat on them and sent him away with a kiss to
see the squire.

It so happened that the great man was walking in his garden with his daughter
Madge that morning, and was feeling in an especially happy mood, so that when he suddenly
looked up and saw a little boy before him, he said kindly,

"Well, child, what can I do for you?"

"If you please, sir," said the boy, "I want you to give me some work to do, so
that I can earn money."

"Earn money!" repeated the squire, "why is that?"

"To buy food for my mother, sir. We are very poor, and since she is no longer
able to work for me I wish to work for her."

"But what can you do?" asked the squire; "you are too small to work in the
fields."

"I could earn something, sir, couldn't I?"

His tone was so pleading that the girl was unable to resist it, and even the
squire was touched. The young lady came forward and took the boy's hand in her own, and
pressing back his curls, she kissed his fair cheek.

"Be our shepherd," she said, pleasantly, "and keep the sheep out of the meadows
and the cows from getting in to the corn. You know, father," she went on, turning to the
squire, "it was only yesterday you said you must get a boy to tend the sheep, and I think
he can do it nicely."

"Very well," replied the squire, "it shall be as you say, and if he is attentive
and watchful he will be able to save me a good bit of trouble and so really earn his
money."

Then he turned to the child and said,

"Come to me in the morning, and I will give you a silver horn to blow, that you
may call the sheep and the cows whenever they go astray. What is your name?"

"Oh, well," interrupted the squire's daughter; "I shall call him Little Boy Blue,
since he is dressed in blue. And you must give him a good wage."

"Very good," said the squire cheerfully, as he pinched his daughter's rosy cheek;
"be watchful, Little Boy Blue, and you shall be well paid."

Little Boy Blue thanked them both sweetly and ran back over the hill and into the
valley where his home lay nestled by the riverside, to tell the good news to his
mother.

The widow wept tears of joy when she heard his story, and smiled when he told her
that his name was to be Little Boy Blue. She knew the squire was a kind master and would
be good to her darling son.

Early the next morning Little Boy Blue was at the Hall, and the squire's steward
gave him a new silver horn. It glistened brightly in the sunshine, and a golden cord to
fasten it around his neck. And then he was given charge of the sheep and the cows, and
told to keep them from straying into the meadowlands and the fields of grain.

It was not hard work, but just suited to Little Boy Blue's age, and he was
watchful and vigilant and made a very good shepherd boy. His mother did not have to feed
him, for the squire paid her son liberally, and the squire's daughter made a favourite of
the small shepherd and loved to hear the call of his silver horn echoing among the hills.
Even the sheep and the cows were fond of him, and always obeyed the sound of his horn;
therefore the squire's corn thrived and was never trampled.

Little Boy Blue was now very happy, and his mother was proud and contented and
began to improve in health. After a few weeks she became strong enough to leave the
cottage and walk a little in the fields each day; but she could not go far, because her
limbs were too feeble to support her long; the most she could attempt was to walk as far
as the stile to meet Little Boy Blue when he came home from work in the evening. Then she
would lean on his shoulder and return to the cottage with him, and the boy was glad he was
able to help.

One day when Little Boy Blue came homeward one evening very light of heart and
whistled merrily as he walked along, his mother did not await him at the stile, and there
was not any good supper spread on the table in the little cottage for him. Instead, in
answer to his call he heard a low moan of pain.

Little Boy Blue sprang over the stile and found his mother lying on the ground.
Her face white and drawn with suffering, and tears of anguish running down her cheeks. She
had slipped on the stile and fallen, and her leg was broken.

Little Boy Blue ran to the cottage for water and bathed the poor woman's face, and
raised her head that she might drink. There were no neighbours, for the cottage stood all
alone by the river, so the child had to support his mother in his arms as best he could
while she crawled painfully back to the cottage. Fortunately, it was not far, and at last
she was safely laid on her bed. Then Little Boy Blue began to think what he should do
next.

"Can I leave you alone while I go for the doctor, mamma?" he asked anxiously, as
he held her clasped hands tightly in his two little ones. His mother drew him towards her
and kissed him.

"Take the boat, dear," she said, "and fetch the doctor from the village. I shall
be patient till you return."

Little Boy Blue rushed away to the river bank and unfastened the little boat; and
then he pulled sturdily down the river till he passed the bend and came to the village
below. When he had found the doctor and told of his mother's misfortune, the good man
promised to attend him at once, and very soon they were seated in the boat and on their
way to the cottage.

It was very dark by this time, but Little Boy Blue knew every turn and bend in the
river, and the doctor helped him pull at the oars, so that at last they came to the place
where a faint light twinkled through the cottage window. They found the poor woman in much
pain, but the doctor quickly set and bandaged her leg, and gave her some medicine to ease
her suffering. It was nearly midnight when all was finished and the doctor was ready to
start back to the village.

"Take good care of your mother," he said to the boy, "and don't worry about her,
for it is not a bad break and the leg will mend nicely in time; but she will be in bed
many days, and you must nurse her as well as you are able."

All through the night the boy sat by the bedside, bathing his mother's fevered
brow and ministering to her wants. And when the day broke she was resting easily and the
pain had left her, and she told Little Boy Blue he must go to his work.

"For," said she, "more than ever now we need the money you earn from the squire,
as my misfortune will add to our costs of living, and we have the doctor to pay. Do not
fear to leave me, for I shall rest quietly and sleep most of the time while you are
away."

Little Boy Blue did not like to leave his mother all alone, but he knew of no one
he could ask to stay with her; so he placed food and water by her bedside, and ate a
little breakfast himself, and started off to tend his sheep.

The sun was shining brightly, and the birds sang sweetly in the trees, and the
crickets chirped just as merrily as if this great trouble had not come to Little Boy Blue
to make him sad.

But he went bravely to his work, and for several hours he watched carefully; and
the men at work in the fields, and the squire's daughter, who sat embroidering on the
porch of the great house, heard often the sound of his horn as he called the straying
sheep to his side.

But he had not slept the whole night, and he was tired with his long watch at his
mother's bedside, and so in spite of himself the lashes would droop occasionally over his
eyes, for he was only a child, and children feel the loss of sleep more than older
people.

Still, Little Boy Blue did not want to sleep while he was on duty, and fought
against the drowsiness that was creeping over him. The sun shone very hot that day, and he
walked to the shady side of a big haystack and sat down on the ground, leaning his back
against the stack.

The cows and sheep were quietly browsing near him, and he watched them earnestly
for a time, listening to the singing of the birds, and the gentle tinkling of the bells on
the wethers, and the faraway songs of the reapers that the breeze brought to his
ears.

And before he knew it the blue eyes had closed fast, and the head lay back on the
hay, and Little Boy Blue was fast asleep and dreaming that his mother was well again and
had come to the stile to meet him.

The sheep strayed near the edge of the meadow and paused, waiting for the warning
sound of the horn. And the breeze carried the fragrance of the growing corn to the
nostrils of the browsing cows and tempted them nearer and nearer to the forbidden feast.
But the silver horn was silent, and before long the cows were feeding on the squire's pet
cornfield and the sheep were enjoying themselves amidst the juicy grasses of the
meadows.

The squire himself was returning from a long, weary ride over his farms, and when
he came to the cornfield and saw the cows trampling down the grain and feeding on the
golden stalks he was very angry.

"Little Boy Blue!" he cried; "ho! Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn!" But there
was no reply. He rode on a way and now discovered that the sheep were deep within the
meadows, and that made him more angry still.

"Here, Isaac," he said to a farmer's lad who chanced to pass by, "where is Little
Boy Blue?"

"He's under the haystack, your honor, fast asleep!" replied Isaac with a grin, for
he had passed that way and seen that the boy was lying asleep.

"Will you go and wake him?" asked the squire; "for he must drive out the sheep and
the cows before they do more damage."

"Not I," replied Isaac, "if I wake him he'll surely cry, for he is but a baby, and
not fit to mind the sheep. But I myself will drive them out for your honour," and away he
ran to do so, thinking that now the squire would give him Little Boy Blue's place, and
make him the shepherd boy, for Isaac had long desired the position.

The squire's daughter, hearing the angry tones of her father's voice, now came out
to see what was amiss, and when she heard that Little Boy Blue had failed in his trust she
was deeply grieved, for she had loved the child for his pretty ways.

The squire dismounted from his horse and came to where the boy was
lying.

"Awake!" said he, shaking him by the shoulder, "and depart from my lands, for you
have betrayed my trust, and let the sheep and the cows stray into the fields and
meadows!"

Little Boy Blue started up at once and rubbed his eyes; and then he did as Isaac
prophesied, and began to weep bitterly, for his heart was sore that he had failed in his
duty to the good squire and so forfeited his confidence.

But the squire's daughter was moved by the child's tears, so she took him on her
lap and comforted him, asking,

"Why did you sleep, Little Boy Blue, when you should have watched the cows and the
sheep?"

"My mother has broken her leg," answered the boy, between his sobs, "and I did not
sleep all last night, but sat by her bedside nursing her. And I tried hard not to fall
asleep, but could not help myself; and oh, squire! I hope you will forgive me this once,
for my poor mother's sake!"

"Where does your mother live?" asked the squire, in a kindly tone, for he had
already forgiven Little Boy Blue.

"In the cottage down by the river," answered the child; "and she is all alone, for
there is no one near to help us in our trouble."

"Come," said the squire's daughter Madge, rising to her feet and taking his hand;
"lead us to your home, and we will see if we can help your poor mother."

So the squire and his daughter and Little Boy Blue all walked down to the little
cottage, and the squire had a long talk with the poor widow. And that same day a big
basket of dainties was sent to the cottage, and the squire's daughter bade her own maid go
to the widow and nurse her carefully till she recovered.

So that after all Little Boy Blue did more for his dear mother by falling asleep
than he could had he kept wide awake; for after his mother was well again the squire gave
them a pretty cottage to live in very near to the great house itself, and the squire's
daughter was ever afterward their good friend, and saw that they wanted for no comforts of
life.

And Little Boy Blue did not fall asleep again at his post, but watched the cows
and the sheep faithfully for many years, till he grew up to manhood and had a farm of his
own.

He always said his mother's accident had brought him good luck, but not more than
his own loving heart and his nice neighbours.

The Cat and the Fiddle

Hey, diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon!
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran off with the spoon!

Little Bobby was the only son of a small farmer who lived out of town on a country
road. Bobby's mother looked after the house and Bobby's father took care of the farm, and
Bobby himself, who was not very big, helped them both as much as he was able.

It was lonely on the farm, especially when his father and mother were both busy at
work, but then one day the father came home with a small violin he had bought for Bobby in
the town, and the boy soon learned to play on it. Bobby's fiddle soon became his constant
companion.

One day in the warm summer the farmer and his wife decided to drive to the town to
sell their butter and eggs and bring back some groceries in exchange for them. While they
were gone Bobby was to be left alone.

"We won't be back till late in the evening," said his mother, "for the weather is
too warm to drive very fast. But I have left you a dish of bread and milk for your supper.
You can amuse yourself with your fiddle till we return."

Bobby promised to look after the house, and then his father and mother climbed
into the wagon and drove away to the town.

The boy was not wholly alone, for there was the big black tabby-cat lying on the
floor in the kitchen, and the little yellow dog barking at the wagon as it drove away, and
the big moolie-cow lowing in the pasture down by the brook. Animals can be good
company.

Besides he had some work to do in the garden. He began his task.

The little dog went too, for dogs love to be with people and to watch what is
going on; and he sat down near Bobby and cocked up his ears and wagged his tail and seemed
to take a great interest in the weeding. He never strayed far from the boy and kept near
his side most of the time.

By and by the cat wanted to be near them too. He came walking into the garden
also, and lay down on a path in the sunshine and lazily watched the boy at his work. The
dog and the cat were good friends, and did not care to fight each other.

When the carrot-bed was all weeded, the sun was sinking behind the edge of the
forest and the new moon rising in the east, and now Bobby began to feel hungry. He went
into the house for his dish of bread and milk.

"I think I'll take my supper down to the brook," he said to himself, "and sit on
the grassy bank while I eat it. And I'll take my fiddle, too, and play on it to pass the
time till father and mother come home."

It was a splendid idea, for down by the brook it was cool and pleasant. Bobby
took his fiddle under his arm and carried his dish of bread and milk down to the bank that
sloped to the edge of the brook. It was rather a steep bank, but Bobby sat on the edge,
and placing his fiddle beside him, leaned against a tree and began to eat his
supper.

The little dog had followed at his heels, and the cat also came slowly walking
after him, and as Bobby ate, they sat one on either side of him and looked earnestly into
his face as if they too were hungry. So he threw some of the bread to the dog, who grabbed
it eagerly and swallowed it in the twinkling of an eye. And Bobby left some of the milk
in the dish for the cat, also, and she came lazily up and drank it in a dainty, sober
fashion, and licked both the dish and spoon till no drop of the milk was left.

Then Bobby picked up his fiddle and tuned it and began to play some of the pretty
tunes he knew. And while he played he watched the moon rise higher and higher till it was
reflected in the smooth, still water of the brook. The little dog lay quietly on one side
of him, and the cat softly purred on the other, and even the moolie-cow was attracted by
the music and wandered near till she was browsing the grass at the edge of the
brook.

When Bobby had played all the tunes he knew he laid the fiddle down beside him,
near to where the cat slept, and then he lay down on the bank and began to think. Then he
fell asleep.

While he dreamed, the cat sat up and yawned and stretched herself; and then began
wagging her long tail from side to side and watching the moon that was reflected in the
water.

But the fiddle lay just behind her, and as she moved her tail, she drew it between
the strings of the fiddle, where it caught fast. Then she gave her tail a jerk and pulled
the fiddle against the tree, which made a loud noise. This frightened the cat greatly, and
not knowing what was the matter with her tail, she started to run as fast as she could.
But still the fiddle clung to her tail, and at every step it bounded along and made such a
noise that she screamed with terror. And in her fright she ran straight towards the cow,
which, seeing a black streak coming at her, and hearing the racket made by the fiddle,
became also frightened and made such a jump to get out of the way that she jumped right
across the brook, leaping over the very spot where the moon shone in the water.

Bobby had been awakened by the noise, and opened his eyes in time to see the cow
jump over the moon in the brook.

The dog was delighted at the sudden excitement caused by the cat, and ran barking
and dancing along the bank, so that he knocked against the dish, and behold! it slid down
the bank, carrying the spoon with it, and fell with a splash into the water of the
brook.

The cat ran for the house, and Bobby meant to run after him to save his fiddle and
help the cat to get free from it. But when he came halfway to the house, he found the
fiddle lying on the ground. It had dropped from the cat's tail at last. He examined it
carefully, and was glad to find it was not hurt at all.
Then he went across the brook and drove the cow back over the little bridge, and
he also rolled up his sleeve and reached into the water to recover the dish and the
spoon.

After that he went back to the house and lighted a lamp, and sat down to compose a
new tune before his father and mother returned.

The cat had recovered from her fright and lay quietly under the stove, and the dog
sat on the floor panting with his mouth wide open, and looking so comical that Bobby
thought he was actually laughing at what had happened.

And these were the words to the tune that Bobby composed that night:

Hey, diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon!
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran off with the spoon!

The Black Sheep

Black sheep, black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, my little master, three bags full;
One for my master and one for his dame,
And one for the little boy that lives in the lane.

It was a bright spring day, and the sun shone very warm and pleasant over the
pastures, where the new grass was growing so juicy and tender that all the sheep thought
they had never tasted anything so delicious.

The sheep had had a strange experience that morning, for the farmer had taken them
down to the brook and washed them, and then he tied their legs together and laid them on
the grass and clipped all the heavy, soft wool from their bodies with a great pair of
shears.

The sheep did not like this very well, for every once in a while the shears would
pull the wool and hurt them; and when they were sheared they felt very strange, and they
were quite naked to look at as they watched the farmer and his man carry their wool up to
the house in great bags. An old ram said surly,

"They will spin it into threads and make coats and dresses. For no wool grows on
men, it is good to have, and that's why they take our fleece that they may cover
men!"

"I'm sorry for that little boy that lives in the lane," said the Black Sheep,
"having no wool on him. He will never be able to keep warm unless we give him some of our
wool."

"Here comes the good part," said the ram again; "we shall grow more wool by
wintertime."

"What do those people who haven't any sheep do for clothes?" asked the
lamb.

"I'm sure I don't know. They must nearly freeze in the winter. Perhaps the ram
can tell us," said the Black Sheep.

But the ram refused to say anything, so the sheep began to scatter over the
pasture and eat the tender, new grass.

By and by the Black Sheep wandered near the lane, and looking up, saw the little
boy watching it through the bars.

"Good morning, Black Sheep," said the boy; "why do you look so funny this
morning?"

"They have cut off my wool," answered the sheep.

"What will they do with it, Black Sheep?" asked the little boy.

"They will make coats of it, to keep themselves warm."

"I wish I had some wool," said the boy," for I need a new coat very badly, and
mamma is so poor she cannot buy me one."

"That is too bad," replied the Black Sheep; "but I shall have more wool by and by,
and then I will give you a bagful to make a new coat from."

"Will you really?" asked the boy, looking very much pleased.

"Indeed I will," answered the sheep. "Just wait till my wool grows again, and then
you shall have your share of it."

"Oh, thank you!" said the boy, and he ran away to tell his mother what the Black
Sheep had said.

When the farmer came into the field again the Black Sheep said to him, "Master,
how many bags of wool did you cut from my back?"

"Two bags full," replied the farmer; "and it was very nice wool indeed."

"If I grow three bags full the next time, may I have one bag for myself?" asked
the sheep.

"Why, what could you do with a bag of wool?" questioned the farmer.

"I want to give it to the little boy that lives in the lane. He needs a new
coat."

"Very well," answered the master; "if you can grow three bags full I will give one
to that boy."

So the Black Sheep began to grow wool, and tried in every way to grow the finest
and heaviest fleece in all the flock. She always lay in the sunniest part of the pastures,
and drank from the clearest part of the brook, and ate only the young and juicy shoots of
grass and the tenderest of the sheep-sorrel. And each day the little boy came to the bars
and looked at the sheep and asked how the wool was growing.

"I am getting along finely," the Black Sheep would answer, "for not one sheep in
the pasture has so much wool as I have grown already."

"Can I do anything to help you?" asked the little boy.

"Not that I think of," replied the sheep, "unless you could get me a little salt.
I believe salt helps the wool to grow."

So the boy ran to the house and begged his mother for a handful of salt, and then
he came back to the bars, where the Black Sheep licked it out of his hand.

Day by day the wool on the sheep grew longer and longer, and even the old ram
noticed it."

The Black Sheep did not reply to this. Finally the time came to shear the sheep
again, and the farmer and his man came into the pasture to look at them, and were
surprised to see what a fine, big fleece the Black Sheep had grown.

"There will be three bagsful at the least," said the master, "and I will keep my
promise and give one to the little boy in the lane."

The Black Sheep ran up to the bars by the lane and waited with a glad heart till
the little boy came. When he saw the sheep waiting for him he asked,

"Black Sheep, Black Sheep, have you any wool?"

And the sheep replied,

"Yes my little master, three bags full!"

"That is fine!" said the boy; "but who are the three bags for?"

"One for my master, one for his dame, And one for the little boy that lives in the
lane."

"Thank you, Black Sheep," said the little boy; "you are very kind, and I shall
always think of you when I wear my new coat."

The next day the sheep were all sheared, and the Black Sheep's fleece made three
big bagsful. The farmer kept his promise and carried one bag to the little boy that lived
in the lane, and the wool was so soft and so heavy that there was enough not only for the
new coat, but to make his mother a warm dress as well.

And the little boy often reached his hand through the bars and patted him gently
on the head.

Old King Cole

Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe and he called for his bowl
And he called for his fiddlers three.

Old King Cole was not always a king. He was someone who simply straddled the
donkey and took the fiddle under his arm and rode out into the world to seek his
fortune.

When he came to a village he played a merry tune on the fiddle and sang a merry
song with it, and the people gave him food most willingly. At night he could lay his head
on his donkey's neck and sleep as soundly as anyone could in a bed.

And so he went on riding along and playing on his fiddle for many years, till his
head grew bald and his face was wrinkled and his bushy eyebrows became as white as snow.
But his eyes never lost their merry twinkle, and he was just as fat and hearty as in his
younger days, while, if you heard him singing his songs and scraping on the old fiddle,
you would know at once his heart was as young as ever.

He never guided the donkey, but let the beast go where it would, and so it
happened that at last they came to Whatland and entered the city where the king of that
great country lived.

As Cole rode in on his donkey the king of Whatland lay dying in his castle,
surrounded by the court. He had left no heir, and the councilors and wise men in the land
did not know who should succeed him. But finally they found in an old book a law that fit
their purpose.

"If the king dies," so read the law, "and there be no one to succeed to the
throne, the prime minister shall be blinded and led from the palace into the main street
of the city. And he shall stretch out his arms and walk about, and the first person he
touches shall be crowned as king of the land."

The councilors were greatly pleased when they found this law, for it enabled them
to solve their problem. So when the king had breathed his last they blindfolded the prime
minister and led him into the streets. He began walking about with outstretched arms
seeking someone to touch.

The people knew nothing of this law, nor even that the old king was dead, and
seeing the prime minister groping about blindfolded they kept out of his way, fearing they
might be punished if he stumbled against them. But Cole was then riding along on the
donkey, and did not even know it was the prime minister who was feeling about in such a
funny way. So he began to laugh, and the minister, who had by this time grown tired of
groping about, heard the laugh and came toward the stranger and touched him, and at once
all the wise men and the councilors fell down before him and hailed him as their
king!

Thus the wandering fiddler become King Cole, and you may be sure he laughed more
merrily than ever when they explained to him his good fortune.

They carried him within the palace and dressed him in purple and fine linen, and
placed a crown of gold on his bald head and a jeweled scepter in his wrinkled hand, and
all this amused old King Cole very much. When he had been led to the great throne room and
placed on the throne of gold (where the silken cushions felt very soft and pleasant after
his long ride on the donkey's sharp back) the courtiers all knelt before him and asked
what commands he wished to give, since everyone in the kingdom must now obey his slightest
word.

"I think the first thing I would like is my old pipe," said the new king.
"You'll find it in the pocket of the ragged coat I took off."

One of the officers of the court at once ran for the pipe, and when it was brought
King Cole filled it with tobacco from his greasy pouch and lighted it, and you can imagine
what a queer sight it was to some of them.

The councilors looked at each other in dismay, and the ladies of the court sneezed
and coughed and seemed greatly shocked.

"Now, see here," said his Majesty, "I didn't ask to be king of this country; it's
all your own doing. All my life I have smoked whenever I wished, and if I can't do as I
please here, why, I won't be king—so there!"

"But you must be the king, your Majesty, whether you want to or not. The law says
so."

"If that's the case," returned the king, "I can do as I please in other things. So
you just run and get me a bowl of punch."

And although the court was much alarmed by the breaches of etikette, the minister
brought the bowl of punch, and the king pushed his crown onto the back of his head and
drank heartily, and smacked his lips afterwards.

"That's fine!" he said; "but say—what do you people do to amuse yourselves?"
He thought about it for a little while and said, "I propose we have a dance and forget our
cares. Send at once for some fiddlers, and clear the room for our merrymaking, and we can
have a jolly good time!"

One of the officers of the court went out and soon returned with three fiddlers,
and when at the king's command they struck up a tune, the monarch was delighted, for every
fiddler had a very fine fiddle and knew well how to use it.

Now, Old King Cole was a merry old soul, so he soon set all the ladies and
gentlemen of the court to dancing, and he himself took off his crown and his ermine robe
and laid them on the throne, while he danced with the prettiest lady present till he was
out of breath.

Then he dismissed them. By then they were all very well pleased with the new king,
for they saw that in spite of his odd ways, he had a kind heart and would try to make
everyone about him as merry as he was himself.

The next morning the king was informed that several of his subjects craved
audience with him, as there were matters of dispute between them that must be settled. The
king put on his crown and his ermine robe and sat on the throne, although he grumbled a
good deal at it; for never having had any business of his own to attend to he thought it
doubly hard that in his old age he must attend to the business of others.

The first case of dispute was between two men who each claimed to own a fine cow,
and after hearing the evidence, the king ordered the cow to be killed and roasted and
given to the poor, since that was the easiest way to decide the matter. Then followed a
quarrel between two subjects over ten pieces of gold, one claiming the other owed him that
sum. The king, thinking them both rascals, ordered the gold to be paid, and then he took
it and scattered it amongst the beggars outside the palace.

When the subjects learned the manner in which the king settled disputes, they were
afraid to come to him, as both sides were sure to be losers by the decision. And that
saved King Cole a lot of trouble afterwards.

The king, now seeing he was free to do as he pleased, retired to his private
chamber, where he called for the three fiddlers and made them play for him while he smoked
his pipe and drank a bowl of punch.

Every evening he had a dance in the palace; and every day there were picnics and
merrymakings of all kinds.

King Cole loved to feast and to smoke and to drink his punch, and he was never so
merry as when others were merry with him, so that the three fiddlers were almost always by
his side, and at any hour of the day you could hear sweet strains of music echoing through
the palace.

Old King Cole did not forget the donkey that had been his constant companion. When
he rode out, the old fat king always bestrode the donkey, while his courtiers rode on
either side of him on their prancing chargers.

Old King Cole reigned for many years, and was ardently loved by his subjects;
for he always gave liberally to all who asked, and was always as merry and happy as the
day was long, and the people enjoyed many good times under his rule.

Mistress Mary

Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With dingle bells and cockle shells
And cowslips, all in a row.

High on a cliff that overlooked the sea was a little white cottage, in which dwelt
a sailor and his wife, with their two strong sons and a little girl. The sons were also
sailors, and had made several voyages with their father in a pretty ship called the
"Skylark." Their names were Hobart and Robart. The little girl's name was Mary, and she
was very happy indeed when her father and her brothers were at home, for they petted her
and played games with her and loved her very dearly But when the "Skylark" went to sea,
and her mother and herself were left alone in the little white cottage, the hours were
very dull and tedious, and Mary counted the days till the sailors came home
again.

One spring, just as the grasses began to grow green on the cliff and the trees
were dressing their stiff, barren branches in robes of delicate foliage, the father and
brothers bade good-bye to Mary and her mother, for they were starting on a voyage to the
Black Sea.

"And how long will you be gone, papa?" asked Mary, who was perched on her father's
knee, where she could nestle her soft cheek against his bushy whiskers.

"How long?" he repeated, stroking her curls tenderly as he spoke; "well, well, my
darling, it will be a long time indeed! Do you know the cowslips that grow in the
pastures, Mary?"

"Oh, yes; I watch for them every spring," she answered.

"And do you know the dingle-bells that grow near the edge of the wood?" he asked
again.

"I know them well, papa," replied Mary, "for often I gather their blue blossoms
and put them in a vase on the table."

"And how about the cockle-shells?"

"Them also I know," said Mary eagerly, for she was glad her father should find her
so well acquainted with the field flowers; "there is nothing prettier than the big white
flowers of the cockle-shells. But tell me, papa, what have the flowers to do with your
coming home?"

"Why, just this, sweetheart," returned the sailor gravely; "all the time that it
takes the cowslips and dingle-bells and cockle-shells to sprout from the ground, and grow
big and strong, and blossom into flower, and, yes—to wither and die away
again—all that time shall your brothers and I sail the seas. But when the cold winds
begin to blow, and the flowers are gone, then, God willing, we shall come back to you; and
by that time you may have grown wiser and bigger, and I am sure you will have grown older.
So one more kiss, sweetheart, and then we must go, for our time is up."

The next morning, when Mary and her mother had dried their eyes, which had been
wet with grief at the departure of their loved ones, the little girl asked
earnestly,

"Mamma, may I make a flower-garden?"

"A flower-garden!" repeated her mother in surprise; "why do you wish a flower-
garden, Mary?"

"I want to plant in it the cockle-shells and the cowslips and the dingle-bells,"
she answered.

And her mother, who had heard what the sailor had said to his little girl, knew at
once what Mary meant; so she kissed her daughter and replied,

"Yes, Mary, you may have the flower-garden, if you wish. We will dig a nice
little bed just at the side of the house, and you shall plant your flowers and care for
them yourself."

"I think I'd rather have the flowers at the front of the house," said
Mary.

"But why?" asked her mother; "they will be better sheltered at the
side."

"Very well," answered her mother, "make your garden at the front, if you will, and
I will help you to dig up the ground."

"But I don't want you to help," said Mary, "for this is to be my own little
flower- garden, and I want to do all the work myself."

Now I must tell you that this little girl, although very sweet in many ways, had
one serious fault. She was inclined to be a bit contrary, and put her own opinions and
ideas before those of her elders. Perhaps Mary meant no wrong in this; she often thought
knew better how to do a thing than others did; and in such a case she was not only
contrary, but anxious to have her own way.

And so her mother, who did not like her little daughter to be unhappy, often gave
way to her in small things, and now she permitted Mary to make her own garden, and plant
it as she would.

So Mary made a long, narrow bed at the front of the house, and then she prepared
to plant her flowers.

"If you scatter the seeds," said her mother, "the flower-bed will look very
pretty."

Now this was what Mary was about to do; but since her mother advised it, she tried
to think of another way, for, as I said, she was contrary at times. And in the end she
planted the dingle-bells all in one straight row, and the cockle-shells in another
straight row the length of the bed, and she finished by planting the cowslips in another
long row at the back.

Her mother smiled, but said nothing; and now, as the days passed by, Mary watered
and tended her garden with great care; and when the flowers began to sprout she plucked
all the weeds that grew among them, and so in the mild spring weather the plants grew
finely.

"When they have grown up big and strong," said Mary one morning, as she weeded the
bed, "and when they have budded and blossomed and faded away again, then papa and my
brothers will come home. And I shall call the cockle-shells papa, for they are the
biggest and strongest; and the dingle-bells shall be brother Hobart, and the cowslips
brother Robart. And now I feel as if the flowers were really my dear ones, and I must be
very careful that they come to no harm!"

She was filled with joy when one morning she ran out to her flower-garden after
breakfast and found the dingle-bells and cowslips were actually blossoming, while even the
cockle-shells were showing their white buds. They looked rather comical, all standing in
stiff, straight rows, one after the other; but Mary did not mind that.

While she was working she heard the tramp of a horse's hoofs, and looking up saw
the big bluff squire riding toward her. The big squire was very fond of children, and
whenever he rode near the little white cottage he stopped to have a word with Mary. He was
old and bald-headed, and he had side-whiskers that were very red in colour and very short
and stubby; but there was ever a merry twinkle in his blue eyes, and Mary well knew him
for her friend.

Now, when she looked up and saw him coming toward her flower-garden, she nodded
and smiled to him, and the big bluff squire rode up to her side, and looked down with a
smile at her flowers.

Then he said to her in rhyme (for it was a way of speaking the jolly squire
had),

"Mistress Mary, so contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all in a row!"

And Mary, being a sharp little girl, and knowing the squire's queer ways, replied
to him likewise in rhyme, saying,

"I thank you, squire, that you enquire
How well the flowers are growing;
The dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all are blowing!"

The squire laughed at this reply, and patted her on her head, and then he went
on,

"'It is aptly said. But pretty maid,
Why fill your garden thus
When every field yields the same flowers
To pluck them as you will?"

"That is a long story, squire," said Mary; "but this much I may tell
you,

"The cockle-shell is father's flower,
The cowslip here is Robart,
The dingle-bell, I now must tell,
I've named for Brother Hobart

"And when the flowers have lived their lives
In sunshine and in rain,
And then do fade, why, papa said
He'd sure come home again."

"Oh, that's the idea, is it?" asked the big bluff squire, forgetting his poetry.
"Well, it's a pretty thought, my child, and I think because the flowers are strong and
hearty that you may know your father and brothers are the same; and I'm sure I hope
they'll come back from their voyage safe and sound. I shall come and see you again, little
one, and watch the garden grow." And then he said "gee-up" to his gray mare, and rode
away.

The very next day, to Mary's great surprise and grief; she found the leaves of the
dingle-bells curling and beginning to wither.

"The dingle-bells are dying," said her mother, after looking carefully at the
flowers; "but the reason is that the cold winds from the sea swept right over your garden
last night, and dingle-bells are delicate flowers and grow best where they are sheltered
by the woods. If you had planted them at the side of the house, as I wished you to, the
wind would not have killed them."

Mary did not reply to this, but sat down and began to weep, feeling at the same
time that her mother was right and it was her own fault for being so contrary.

While she sat thus the squire rode up, and called to her,

"Fie, Mary, fie! Why do you cry;
And blind your eyes to knowing
How dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all are growing?"

"Oh, squire!" sobbed Mary, "I am in great trouble
"Each dingle-bell I loved so well
Before my eyes is dying,
And much I fear my brother dear
In sickness now is lying!"

"Nonsense!" said the squire; "because you named the flowers after your brother
Hobart is no reason he should be affected by the fading of the dingle-bells. I very much
suspect the real reason they are dying is because the cold sea wind caught them last
night. Dingle-bells are delicate. If you had scattered the cockle- shells and cowslips all
about them, the stronger plants would have protected the weaker; but you see, my girl, you
planted the dingle-bells all in a row, and so the wind caught them nicely."

Again Mary reproached herself for having been contrary and refusing to listen to
her mother's advice; but the squire's words comforted her, nevertheless, and made her feel
that brother Hobart and the flowers had really nothing to do with each other.

The weather now began to change, and the cold sea winds blew each night over
Mary's garden. She did not know this, for she was always lying snugly tucked up in her
bed, and the warm morning sun usually drove away the winds; but her mother knew it, and
feared Mary's garden would suffer.

One day Mary came into the house where her mother was at work and said,
gleefully,

"Papa and my brothers will soon be home now."

"Why do you think so?" asked her mother.

"Because the cockle-shells and cowslips are both fading away and dying, just as
the dingle-bells did, and papa said when they faded and withered he and the boys would
come back to us."

Mary's mother knew that the harsh winds had killed the flowers before their time,
but she did not like to disappoint her darling, so she only said, with a sigh,

"I hope you are right, Mary, for we both shall be glad to welcome our dear ones
home again."

But soon afterward the big bluff squire came riding up, as was his wont, to where
Mary stood by her garden, and he at once asked,

"Pray tell me, dear, though much I fear
The answer sad I know,
How grow the sturdy cockle-shells
And cowslips, all in a row?"

And Mary looked up at him with her bright smile and answered,

"Dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips are all dead,
And now my papa's coming home,
For so he surely said."

"Ah," said the squire, looking at her curiously, "I'm afraid you are getting way
ahead of time. See here, Mary, how would you like a little ride with me on my
nag?"

"I would like it very much, sir," replied Mary.

"Then reach up your hand. Now!—there you are, little one!" and Mary found
herself seated safely in front of the squire, who clasped her with one strong arm so that
she could not slip off.

"Now, then," he said "we'll take a little ride down the hill and by the path that
runs beside the wood."

So he gave the rein to his mare and they rode along, chatting merrily together,
till they came to the wood. Then said the squire,

"Take a look within that nook
And tell me what is there."

And Mary exclaimed,

"A dingle-bell, and truth to tell
In full bloom, I declare!"

The squire now clucked to his nag, and as they rode away he said,

"Now come with me and you shall see
A field with cowslips bright
And not a garden in the land
Can show so fair a sight."

And so it was, for as they rode through the pastures the cowslips bloomed on every
hand, and Mary's eyes grew bigger and bigger as she thought of her poor garden with its
dead flowers.

And then the squire took her toward the little brook that wandered through the
meadows, flowing over the pebbles with a soft, gurgling sound that was very nearly as
sweet as music; and when they reached it the big squire said,

"If you will look beside the brook
You'll see, I know quite well,
That hidden in each mossy nook
Is many a cockle-shell."

This was indeed true, and as Mary saw them she suddenly droppeed her head and
began to weep.

"What's the matter, little one?" asked the squire in his kind, bluff voice. And
Mary answered,

"Although the flowers I much admire,
You know papa did say
He won't be home again, squire,
Till all have passed away."

"You must be patient, my child," replied her friend; "and surely you would not
have been thus disappointed had you not tried to make the field flowers grow where they do
not belong. Gardens are all well enough for fancy flowers to grow in, but the posies that
God gave to all the world, and made to grow wild in the great garden of Nature, will never
thrive in other places. Your father meant you to watch the flowers in the field; and if
you will come and visit them each day, you will find the time waiting very short
indeed."

Mary dried her eyes and thanked the kindly old squire, and after that she visited
the fields each day and watched the flowers grow.

And it was not so very long, as the squire said before the blossoms began to
wither and fall away; and finally one day Mary looked out over the sea and saw a little
speck on the waters that looked like a sail. And when it came nearer and had grown larger,
both she and her mother saw that it was the "Skylark" come home again, and you can imagine
how pleased and happy the sight of the pretty little ship made them.

And soon after, when Mary had been hugged by her two sunburned brothers and was
clasped in her father's strong arms, she whispered,

"I knew you were coming soon, papa."

"And how did you know, sweetheart?" he asked, giving her an extra kiss.

"Because I watched the flowers; and the dingle-bells and cowslips and
cockle-shells are all withered and faded away. And did you not say that, God willing, when
this happened you would come back to us?"

"To be sure I did," answered her father, with a happy laugh; "and I must have
spoken truly, sweetheart, for God in His goodness was willing, and here I am!"

The Wond'rous Wise Man

There was a man in our town
And he was wond'rous wise;
He jumped into a bramble bush
And scratched out both his eyes.
And when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush
And scratched them in again!

Our town is a quiet little town, and lies nestling in a little valley surrounded
by pretty green hills. I do not think you would ever have heard our town mentioned had not
the man lived there who was so wise that everyone marvelled at his great
knowledge.

He was not always a wise man; he was a wise boy before he grew to manhood, and
even when a child he was so remarkable for his wisdom that people shook their heads
gravely and said, "when he grows up there will be no need of books, for he will know
everything!"

His father thought he had a wond'rous wise look when he was born, and so he named
him Solomon, thinking that if indeed he turned out to be wise the name would fit him
nicely, whereas, should he be mistaken, and the boy grow up stupid, his name could be
easily changed to Simon.

But the father was not mistaken, and the boy's name remained Solomon.

When he was still a child Solomon confounded the schoolmaster by asking, one
day,

"Can you tell me, sir, why a cow drinks water from a brook?"

"Well really," replied the abashed schoolmaster, "I have never given the subject
serious thought. But I will sleep on the question, and try to give you an answer
to-morrow."

"But the schoolmaster could not sleep; he remained awake all the night trying to
think why a cow drinks water from a brook, and in the morning he was no nearer the answer
than before. So he had to appear before the wise child and acknowledge that he could not
solve the problem.

"I have looked at the subject from every side," said he, "and given it careful
thought, and yet I cannot tell why a cow drinks water from a brook."

"Sir," replied the wise child, "it is because the cow is thirsty."

The shock of this answer was so great that the schoolmaster fainted away, and when
they had brought him to he made a prophecy that Solomon would grow up to be a wond'rous
wise man.

It was the same way with the village doctor. Solomon came to him one day and
asked,

"Tell me, sir, why has a man two eyes?"

"Bless me!" exclaimed the doctor, "I must think I a bit before I answer, for I
have never yet had my attention called to this subject."

So he thought for a long time, and then he said, "I must really give it up. I
cannot tell, for the life of me, why a man has two eyes. Do you know?"

"Yes, sir," answered the boy.

"Then," said the doctor, after taking a dose of quinine to brace up his nerves,
for he remembered the fate of the schoolmaster, "then please tell me why a man as two
eyes.

"A man has two eyes, sir," returned Solomon, solemnly, "because he was born that
way."

And the doctor marvelled greatly at so much wisdom in a little child, and made a
note of it in his note-book.

Solomon was so full of wisdom that it flowed from his mouth in a perfect stream,
and every day he gave new evidence to his friends that he could scarcely hold all the wise
thoughts that came to him. For instance, one day he said to his father,

"I perceive our dog has six legs."

"Oh, no!" replied his father, "our dog has only four legs."

"You are surely mistaken, sir," said Solomon, with the gravity that comes from
great wisdom, "these are our dog's fore legs, are they not?" pointing to the front legs of
the dog.

"Yes," answered his father.

"Well, went on Solomon, "the dog has two other legs, besides, and two and four are
six; therefore the dog has six legs."

"But that is very old," exclaimed his father.

"True," replied Solomon, "but this is a young dog."

Then his father bowed his head in shame that his own child should teach him
wisdom.

Of course Solomon wore glasses on his eyes—all wise people wear
them,—and his face was ever grave and solemn, while he walked slowly and stiffly so
that people might know he was the celebrated wise man, and do him reverence.

And when he had grown to manhood the fame of his wisdom spread all over the world,
so that all the other wise men were jealous, and tried in many ways to confound him; but
Solomon always came out ahead and maintained his reputation for wisdom.

Finally a very wise man came from Cumberland, to meet Solomon and see which of
them was the wisest. He was a very big man, and Solomon was a very little man, and so the
people all shook their heads sadly and feared Solomon had met his match, for if the
Cumberland man was as full of wisdom as Solomon, he had much the advantage in
size.

They formed a circle around the two wise men, and then began the trial to see
which was the wisest.

"Tell me," said Solomon, looking straight up into the big man's face with an air
of confidence that reassured his friends, "how many sisters has a boy who has one father,
one mother, and seven brothers?"

The big wise man got very red in the face, and scowled and coughed and stammered,
but he could not tell.

"I do not know," he acknowledged; "nor do you know, either, for there is no rule
to go by."

"Oh, yes, I know," replied Solomon; "he has two sisters. I know this is the true
answer, because I know the boy and his father and his mother and his brothers and his
sisters, so that I cannot be mistaken."

Now all the people applauded at this, for they were sure Solomon had got the best
of the man from Cumberland.

But it was now the big man's turn to try Solomon, so he said,

"Fingers five are on my hand;
All of them upright do stand.
One a dog is, chasing kittens;
One a cat is, wearing mittens;
One a rat is, eating cheese;
One a wolf is, full of fleas;
One a fly is, in a cup
How many fingers do I hold up?"

"Four," replied Solomon, promptly, "for one of I them is a thumb!"

The wise man from Cumberland was so angry at being outwitted that he sprang at
Solomon and would no doubt have injured him had not our wise man turned and run away as
fast as he could go. The man from Cumberland at once ran after him, and chased him through
the streets and down the lanes and up the side of the hill where the bramble-bushes
grow.

Solomon ran very fast, but the man from Cumberland was bigger, and he was just
about to grab our wise man by his coat-tails when Solomon gave a great jump, and jumped
right into the middle of a big bramble-bush!

The people were all coming up behind, and as the big man did not dare to follow
Solomon into the bramble-bush, he turned away and ran home to Cumberland.

All the men and women of our town were horrified when they came up and found their
wise man in the middle of the bramble-bush, and held fast by the brambles, which scratched
and pricked him on every side.

"Solomon! are you hurt?" they cried.

"I should say I am hurt!" replied Solomon, with a groan; "my eyes are scratched
out!"

"How do you know they are?" asked the village doctor.

"I can see they are scratched out!" replied Solomon; and the people all wept with
grief at this, and Solomon howled louder than any of them.

Now the fact was that when Solomon jumped into the bramble-bush he was wearing his
spectacles, and the brambles pushed the glasses so close against his eyes that he could
not open them; and so, as every other part of him was scratched and bleeding, and he could
not open his eyes, he made sure they were scratched out.

"How am I to get out of here?" he asked at last.

"You must jump out," replied the doctor, "since you have jumped in."

So Solomon made a great jump, and although the brambles tore him cruelly, he
sprang entirely out of the bush and fell plump into another one. This last bush, however,
by good luck, was not a bramble- bush, but one of elderberry, and when he jumped into it
his spectacles fell off, and to his surprise he opened his eyes and found that he could
see again.

When the people heard this they marvelled greatly at the wisdom of a man who knew
how to scratch his eyes in after they were scratched out; and they lifted Solomon from the
bush and carried him home, where they bound up the scratches and nursed him carefully till
he was well again.

And after that no one ever questioned the wond'rous wisdom of our wise man, and
when he finally died, at a good old age, they built a great monument over his grave, and
on one side of it were the words,

What Jack Horner Did

Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum
And said, "What a good boy am I!"

Little Jack Horner lived in an old, tumble-down house at the edge of a big wood;
and there many generations of Horners had lived before him, and had earned their living by
chopping wood. Jack's father and mother were both dead, and he lived with his grandfather
and grandmother, who took great pains to teach him all that a boy should know.

They lived very comfortably and happily together till one day a great tree fell on
Grandpa Horner and crushed his legs; and from that time on he could not work at all, but
had to be nursed and tended very carefully.

This calamity was a great affliction to the Horners. Grandma Horner had a little
money saved up in an old broken teapot that she kept in the cupboard, but that would not
last them a great time, and when it was gone they would have nothing with which to buy
food.

"I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us," she said to Jack, "for I am too
old to work, and you are too young." She always told her troubles to Jack now; small
though he was, he was the only one she could talk freely with, since it would only bother
the poor crippled grandfather to tell him how low the money was getting in the
teapot.

"It is true," replied Jack, "that you are too old to work, for your rheumatism
will barely allow you to care for the house and cook our meals; and there is grandpa to be
tended. But I am not too young to work, grandma, and I shall take my little hatchet and go
into the wood. I cannot cut the big trees, but I can the smaller ones, and I am sure I
shall be able to pile up enough wood to secure the money we need for food."

"You are a good boy, dear," said grandma Horner, patting his head lovingly, "but
you are too young for the task. We must think of some other way to keep the wolf from the
door."

But Jack was not shaken in his resolve, although he saw it was useless to argue
further with his grandmother. So the next morning he rose very early and took his little
axe and went into the wood to begin his work. There were a good many branches scattered
about, and these he was able to cut with ease; and then he piled them up nicely to be sold
when the wood-carter next came around. When dinner-time came he stopped long enough to eat
some of the bread and cheese he had brought with him, and then he resumed his
work.

But scarcely had he chopped one branch when a faint cry from the wood arrested his
attention. It seemed as if someone was shouting for help. Jack listened a moment, and
again heard the cry.

Without hesitation he seized his axe and ran toward the place from whence the cry
had proceeded. The underbrush was very thick and the thorns caught in his clothing and
held him back, but with the aid of his sharp little axe he overcame all difficulties and
presently reached a place where the wood was more open.

He paused here, for often he had been told by Grandpa Horner that there were
treacherous bogs in this part of the wood, which were so covered with mosses and ferns
that the ground seemed solid enough to walk on. But woe to the unlucky traveler who
stepped unawares on their surface; for instantly he found himself caught by the clinging
moist clay, to sink farther and farther into the bog till, swallowed up in the mire, he
would meet a horrible death beneath its slimy surface. His grandfather had told him never
to go near these terrible bogs, and Jack, who was an obedient boy, had always kept away
from this part of the wood. But as he paused, again that despairing cry came to his ears,
very near to him now, it seemed:

"Help!"

Forgetful of all save a desire to assist this unknown sufferer, Jack sprang
forward with an answering cry, and only halted when he found himself on the edge of a vast
bog.

"Where are you?" he then shouted.

"Here!" answered a voice, and, looking down, Jack saw, a few feet away, the head
and shoulders of a man. He had walked into the bog and sunk into its treacherous depths
nearly to his waist, and, although he struggled bravely, his efforts only seemed to draw
him farther down toward a frightful death.

For a moment, filled with horror and dismay, Jack stood looking at the man. Then
he remembered a story he had once heard of how a man had been saved from the
bog.

"Be quiet, sir!" he called to the unfortunate stranger; "save all your strength,
and I may yet be able to rescue you."

He then ran to a tall sapling that stood near and began chopping away with his
axe. The keen blade speedily cut through the young but tough wood, and, then Jack dragged
it to the edge of the bog, and, exerting all his strength, pushed it out till the sapling
was within reach of the sinking man.

"Grab it, sir!" he called out, "and hold on tightly. It will keep you from
sinking farther into the mire, and when you have gained more strength you may be able to
pull yourself out."

"You are a brave boy," replied the stranger, "and I shall do as you tell
me."

It was a long and tedious struggle, and often Jack thought the stranger would
despair and be unable to drag his body from the firm clutch of the bog; but little by
little the man succeeded in drawing himself up by the sapling, and at last he was saved,
and sank down exhausted on the firm ground by Jack's side.

The boy then ran for some water that stood in a slough near by, and with this he
bathed the stranger's face and cooled his parched lips. Then he gave him the remains of
his bread and cheese, and soon the gentleman became strong enough to walk with Jack's help
to the cottage at the edge of the wood.

Grandma Horner was greatly surprised to see the strange man approaching, supported
by her sturdy little grandson; but she ran to help him, and afterward gave him some old
clothing of Grandpa Horner's, to replace his own muddy garments. When the man had fully
rested, she brewed him her last bit of tea, and by that time the stranger declared he felt
as good as new.

"Is this your son, ma'am?" he asked, pointing to Jack.

"He is my grandson, sir," answered the woman.

"He is a good boy," declared the stranger, "and a brave boy as well, for he has
saved my life. I live far away in a big city, and have plenty of money. If you will give
Jack to me I will take him home and educate him, and make a great man of him when he grows
up."

Grandma Horner hesitated, for the boy was very dear to her and the pride of her
old age; but Jack spoke up for himself.

"I'll not go," he said, stoutly; "you are very kind, and mean well by me, but
grandma and grandpa have only me to care for them now, and I must stay with them and cut
the wood, and so keep them supplied with food."

The stranger said nothing more, but he patted Jack's head kindly, and soon after
left them and took the road to the city.

The next morning Jack went to the wood again, and began chopping as bravely as
before. And by hard work he cut a great deal of wood, which the wood-carter carried away
and sold for him. The pay was not very much, to be sure, but Jack was glad that he was
able to earn something to help his grandparents.

And so the days passed rapidly away till it was nearly Christmas time, and now, in
spite of Jack's earnings, the money was very low indeed in the broken teapot.

One day, just before Christmas, a great wagon drove up to the door of the little
cottage, and in it was the stranger Jack had rescued from the bog. The wagon was loaded
with a store of good things which would add to the comfort of the aged pair and their
grandson, including medicines for grandpa and rare teas for grandma, and a fine suit of
clothes for Jack, who was just then away at work in the wood.

When the stranger had brought all these things w into the house, he asked to see
the old teapot. Trembling with the excitement of their good fortune, Grandma Horner
brought out the teapot, and the gentleman drew a bag from beneath his coat and filled the
pot to the brim with shining gold pieces.

"If ever you need more," he said, "send to me, and you shall have all you wish to
make you comfortable."

Then he told her his name, and where he lived, so that she might find him if need
be, and then he drove away in the empty wagon before Grandma Horner had half finished
thanking him.

You can imagine how astonished and happy little Jack was when he returned from his
work and found all the good things his kind benefactor had brought. Grandma Horner was
herself so delighted that she caught the boy in her arms, and hugged and kissed him,
declaring that his brave rescue of the gentleman had brought them all this happiness in
their hour of need.

"To-morrow is Christmas," she said, "and we shall have an abundance with which to
celebrate the good day. So I shall make you a Christmas pie, Jack dear, and stuff it full
of plums, for you must have your share of our unexpected prosperity."

And Grandma Horner was as good as her word, and made a very delicious pie indeed
for her darling grandson.

And that is was how it came that

"Little Jack Horner sat in a corner
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum
And said, "What a good boy am I!

The Man in the Moon

The Man in the Moon came tumbling down,
And asked the way to Norwich;
He went by the south and burned his mouth
With eating cold pease porridge!

What! Have you never heard the story of the Man in the Moon? Then I must surely
tell it, for it is very amusing, and there is not a word of truth in it.

The Man in the Moon was rather lonesome, and often he peeked over the edge of the
moon and looked down on the earth and envied all the people who lived together, for he
thought it must be vastly more pleasant to have companions to talk to than to be shut up
in a big planet all by himself, where he had to whistle to keep himself company.

One day he looked down and saw an alderman sailing up through the air towards him.
This alderman was being translated (instead of being transported, owing to a misprint in
the law) and as he came near the Man in the Moon called to him and said,

"How is everything down on the earth?"

"Everything is lovely," replied the alderman, "and I wouldn't leave it if I did
not have to."

"What's a good place to visit down there?" asked the Man in the Moon.

"Oh, Norwich is a mighty fine place," returned the alderman, "and it's famous for
its pease porridge;" and then he sailed out of sight and left the Man in the Moon to
reflect on what he had said.

The words of the alderman made him more anxious than ever to visit the earth, and
so he walked thoughtfully home, and put a few lumps of ice in the stove to keep him warm,
and sat down to think how he should manage the trip.

You see, everything went by contraries in the Moon, and when the Man wished to
keep warm he knocked off a few chunks of ice and put them in his stove; and he cooled his
drinking water by throwing red- hot coals of fire into the pitcher. Likewise, when he
became chilly he took off his hat and coat, and even his shoes, and so became warm; and in
the hot days of summer he put on his overcoat to cool off.

All of which seems very queer to you, no doubt; but it wasn't at all queer to the
Man in the Moon, for he was accustomed to it.

Well, he sat by his ice-cool fire and thought about his journey to the earth, and
finally he decided the only way he could get there was to slide down a moonbeam.

So he left the house and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, for he was
uncertain how long he should be gone; and then he went to the edge of the moon and began
to search for a good strong moonbeam.

At last he found one that seemed rather substantial and reached right down to a
pleasant-looking spot on the earth; and so he swung himself over the edge of the moon, and
put both arms tight around the moonbeam and started to slide down. But he found it rather
slippery, and in spite of all his efforts to hold on he found himself going faster and
faster, so that just before he reached the earth he lost his hold and came tumbling down
head over heels and fell plump into a river.

The cool water nearly scalded him before he could swim out, but fortunately he was
near the bank and he quickly scrambled on the land and sat down to catch his
breath.

By that time it was morning, and as the sun rose its hot rays cooled him off
somewhat, so that he began looking about curiously at all the strange sights and wondering
where on earth he was.

By and by a farmer came along the road by the river with a team of horses drawing
a load of hay, and the horses looked so odd to the Man in the Moon that at first he was
greatly frightened, never before having seen horses except from his home in the moon, from
whence they looked a good deal smaller. But he plucked up courage and said to the
farmer,

"Can you tell me the way to Norwich, sir?"

"Norwich?" repeated the farmer musingly; "I don't know exactly where it be, sir,
but it's somewhere away to the south."

"Thank you," said the Man in the Moon.—But stop! I must not call him the Man
in the Moon any longer, for of course he was now out of the moon; so I'll simply call him
the Man, and you'll know by that which man I mean.

Well, the Man in the—I mean the Man (but I nearly forgot what I have just
said)—the Man turned to the south and began walking briskly along the road, for he
had made up his mind to do as the alderman had advised and travel to Norwich, that he
might eat some of the famous pease porridge that was made there. And finally, after a long
and tiresome journey, he reached the town and stopped at one of the first houses he came
to, for by this time he was very hungry indeed.

A good-looking woman answered his knock at the door, and he asked
politely,

"Is this the town of Norwich, madam?"

"Surely this is the town of Norwich," returned the woman.

"I came here to see if I could get some pease porridge," went on the Man, "for I
hear you make I the nicest porridge in the world in this town."

"That we do, sir," answered the woman, "and if you'll step inside I'll give you a
bowl, for I have plenty in the house that is newly made."

So he thanked her and entered the house, and she asked,

"Will you have it hot or cold, sir?"

"Oh, cold, by all means," replied the Man, "for I detest anything hot to
eat."

She soon brought him a bowl of cold pease porridge, and the Man was so hungry that
he took a big spoonful at once.

But no sooner had he put it into his mouth than he uttered a great yell, and began
dancing frantically about the room, for of course the porridge that was cold to earth folk
was hot to him, and the big spoonful of cold pease porridge had burned his mouth to a
blister!

"What's the matter?" asked the woman.

"Matter!" screamed the Man; "why, your porridge is so hot it has burned
me."

"Fiddlesticks!" she replied, "the porridge is quite cold."

"Try it yourself!" he cried. So she tried it and found it very cold and pleasant.
But the Man was so astonished to see her eat the porridge that had blistered his own mouth
that he became frightened and ran out of the house and down the street as fast as he could
go.

The policeman on the first corner saw him running, and promptly arrested him, and
he was marched off to the magistrate for trial.

"What is your name?" asked the magistrate.

"I haven't any," replied the Man; for of course as he was the only Man in the Moon
it wasn't necessary he should have a name.

"Come, come, no nonsense!" said the magistrate, "you must have some name. Who are
you?"

"Why, I'm the Man in the Moon."

"That's rubbish!" said the magistrate, eyeing the prisoner severely, "you may be a
man, but you're not in the moon-you're in Norwich."

"That is true," answered the Man, who was quite bewildered by this idea.

"And of course you must be called something," went on the magistrate.

"Well, then," said the prisoner, "if I'm not the Man in the Moon I must be the Man
out of the Moon; so call me that."

"Very good," replied the judge; "now, then, where did you come from?"

"The moon."

"Oh, you did, eh? How did you get here?"

"I slid down a moonbeam."

"Indeed! Well, what were you running for?"

"A woman gave me some cold pease porridge, and it burned my mouth."

The magistrate looked at him a moment in surprise, and then he said,

"This person is evidently crazy; so take him to the lunatic asylum and keep him
there."

This would surely have been the fate of the Man had there not been present an old
astronomer who had often looked at the moon through his telescope, and so had discovered
that what was hot on earth was cold in the moon, and what was cold here was hot there; so
he began to think the Man had told the truth. Therefore he begged the magistrate to wait
a few minutes while he looked through his telescope to see if the Man in the Moon was
there. So, as it was now night, he fetched his telescope and looked at the Moon,—and
found there was no man in it at all!

"It seems to be true," said the astronomer, "that the Man has got out of the Moon
somehow or other. Let me look at your mouth, sir, and see if it is really
burned."

Then the Man opened his mouth, and everyone saw plainly it was burned to a
blister! Thereupon the magistrate begged his pardon for doubting his word, and asked him
what he would like to do next.

"I'd like to get back to the Moon," said the Man, "for I don't like this earth of
yours at all. The nights are too hot."

"Why, it's quite cool this evening!" said the magistrate.

"I'll tell you what we can do," remarked the astronomer; "there's a big balloon in
town which belongs to the circus that came here last summer, and was pawned for a board
bill. We can inflate this balloon and send the Man out of the Moon home in it."

"That's a good idea," replied the judge. So the balloon was brought and inflated,
and the Man got into the basket and gave the word to let go, and then the balloon mounted
up into the sky in the direction of the moon.

The good people of Norwich stood on the earth and tipped back their heads, and
watched the balloon go higher and higher, till finally the Man reached out and caught hold
of the edge of the moon, and behold! the next minute he was the Man in the Moon
again!

After this adventure he was well contented to stay at home; and I've no doubt if
you look through a telescope you will see him there to this day.

The Jolly Miller

There was a jolly miller
Lived on the river Dee;
He sang and worked from morn till night,
No lark so blithe as he.
And this the burden of his song
Forever seemed to be:
I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me.

"Cree-e-eekety-cruck-crick! cree-e-eekety-cruck-crick!" sang out the big wheel of
the mill on the river Dee, for it was old and ricketty and had worked many years grinding
corn for the miller; so from morning till night it creaked and growled and complained as
if rebelling against the work it must do. And the country people, at work in the fields
far away, would raise their heads when the soft summer breezes wafted the sound of the
wheel to their ears and say,

"The jolly miller is grinding his corn." And again, at the times when the mill
was shut down and no sound of the wheel reached them, they said to one another,

"The jolly miller has no corn to grind to-day," or, "The miller is oiling the
great wheel." But they would miss the creaking, monotonous noise, and feel more content
when the mill started again and made music for them as they worked.

But no one came to the mill unless they brought corn to grind, for the miller was
a queer man, and liked to be alone. When people passed by the mill and saw the miller at
his work, they only nodded their heads, for they knew he would not reply if they spoke to
him.

He was not an old man, nor a sour man, nor a bad man; on the contrary he could be
heard singing at his work most of the time. But the words of his song would alone have
kept people away from him, for they were always these:

"I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me."

He lived all alone in the mill-house, cooking his own meals and making his own
bed, and neither asking nor receiving help from anyone. It is very certain that if the
jolly miller had cared to have friends many would have visited him, since the country
people were sociable enough in their way; but it was the miller himself who refused to
make friends, and old Farmer Dobson used to say,

"The reason nobody cares for the miller is because he won't let them. It is the
fault of the man himself, not the fault of the people!"

However this may have been, it is true the miller had no friends, and equally sure
that he cared to have none, for it did not make him a bit unhappy.

Sometimes, indeed, as he sat at evening in the doorway of the mill and watched the
moon rise in the sky, he grew a bit lonely and thoughtful, and found himself longing for
some one to love and cherish, for this is the nature of all good men. But when he realized
how his thoughts were straying he began to sing again, and he drove away all such hopeless
longings.

At last a change came over the miller's life. He was standing one evening beside
the river, watching the moonbeams play on the water, when something came floating down the
stream that attracted his attention. For a long time he could not tell what it was, but it
looked to him like a big black box; so he got a long pole and reached it out towards the
box and managed to draw it within reach just above the big wheel. It was fortunate he
saved it when he did for in another moment it would have gone over the wheel and been
dashed to pieces far below.

When the miller had pulled the floating object on the bank he found it really was
a box, the lid being fastened tight with a strong cord. So he lifted it carefully and
carried it into the mill-house, and then he placed it on the floor while he lighted a
candle. Then he cut the cord and opened the box and behold! a little babe lay within it,
sweetly sleeping on a pillow of down.

The miller was so surprised that he stopped singing and gazed with big eyes at the
beautiful face of the little stranger. And while he gazed its eyes opened—two
beautiful, pleading blue eyes,—and the little one smiled and stretched out her arms
toward him.

"Well, well!" said the miller, "where on earth did you come from?"

The baby did not reply, but she tried to, and made some soft little noises that
sounded like the cooing of a pigeon.

The tiny arms were still stretched upwards, and the miller bent down and tenderly
lifted the child from the box and placed her on his knee, and then he began to stroke the
soft, silken ringlets that clustered around her head, and to look on her
wonderingly.

The baby leaned against his breast and fell asleep again, and the miller became
greatly troubled, for he was unused to babies and did not know how to handle them or care
for them. But he sat very still till the little one awoke, and then, thinking it must be
hungry, he brought some sweet milk and fed her with a spoon. The baby smiled at him and
ate the milk as if it liked it, and then one little dimpled hand caught hold of the
miller's whiskers and pulled sturdily, while the baby jumped its little body up and down
and cooed its delight.

Do you think the miller was angry? Not a bit of it! He smiled back into the
laughing face and let her pull his whiskers as much as she liked. For his whole heart had
gone out to this little waif that he rescued from the river, and at last the solitary man
had found something to love.

The baby slept that night in the miller's own bed, snugly tucked in beside the
miller himself; and in the morning he fed her milk again, and then went out to work
singing more merrily than ever.

Every few minutes he would put his head into the room where he had left the child,
to see if it wanted anything, and if it cried even the least bit he would run in and take
it in his arms and soothe the little girl till she smiled again.

That first day the miller was fearful some one would come and claim the child, but
when evening came without the arrival of any stranger he decided the baby had been cast
adrift and now belonged to nobody but him.

"I shall keep her as long as I live," he thought, "and never will we be separated
for even a day. For now that I have found some one to love I could not bear to let her go
again."

He cared for the waif very tenderly; and as the child was strong and healthy she
was not much trouble to him, and to his delight grew bigger day by day.

The country people were filled with surprise when they saw a child in the
mill-house, and wondered where it came from; but the miller would answer no questions, and
as year after year passed away they forgot to enquire how the child came there and looked
on her as the miller's own daughter.

She grew to be a sweet and pretty child, and was the miller's constant companion.
She called him "papa," and he called her Nathalie, because he had found her on the water,
and the country people called her the Maid of the Mill.

The miller worked harder than ever before, for now he had to feed and clothe the
little girl; and he sang from morn till night, so joyous was he, and still his song
was:

"I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me."

One day, while he was singing this, he heard a sob beside him, and looked down to
see Nathalie weeping.

"What is it, my pet?" he asked, anxiously.

"Oh, papa," she answered, "why do you sing that nobody cares for you, when you
know I love you so dearly?"

The miller was surprised, for he had sung the song so long he had forgotten what
the words meant.

"Do you indeed love me, Nathalie?" he asked.

"Indeed, indeed! You know I do!" she replied.

"Then," said the miller, with a happy laugh, as he bent down and kissed the tear-
stained face, "I shall change my song."

And after that he sang:

"I love sweet Nathalie, that I do.
For Nathalie she loves me."

The years passed by and the miller was very happy. Nathalie grew to be a sweet
and lovely maiden, and she learned to cook the meals and tend the house, and that made it
easier for the miller, for now he was growing old.

One day the young squire, who lived at the great house on the hill, came past the
mill and saw Nathalie sitting in the doorway, her pretty form framed in the flowers that
climbed around and over the door.

And the squire loved her after that first glance, for he saw that she was as good
and innocent as she was beautiful. The miller, hearing the sound of voices, came out and
saw them together, and at once he became very angry, for he knew that trouble was in store
for him, and he must guard his treasure very carefully if he wished to keep her with him.
The young squire begged very hard to be allowed to pay court to the Maid of the Mill, but
the miller ordered him away, and he was forced to go. Then the miller saw there were tears
in Nathalie's eyes, and that made him still more anxious, for he feared the mischief was
already done.

Indeed, in spite of the miller's watchfulness, the squire and Nathalie often met
and walked together in the shady lanes or on the green banks of the river. It was not long
before they learned to love one another very dearly, and one day they went hand in hand to
the miller and asked his consent that they should wed.

"What will become of me?" asked the miller, with a sad heart.

"You shall live in the great house with us," replied the squire, "and never again
need you labor for bread."

But the old man shook his head.

"A miller I have lived," said he, "and a miller will I die. But tell me,
Nathalie, are you willing to leave me?"

The girl cast down her eyes and blushed sweetly.

"I love him," she whispered, "and if you separate us I shall die."

"Then," said the miller, kissing her with a heavy heart, "go; and may God bless
you."

So Nathalie and the squire were wed, and lived in the great house, and the very
day after the wedding she came walking down to the mill in her pretty new gown to see the
miller.

But as she drew near she heard him singing, as was his wont; and the song he sung
she had not heard since she was a little girl, for this was it:

"I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me."

She came up softly behind him, and put her arms around his neck.

"Papa," said she, "you must not sing that song. Nathalie loves you yet, and
always will while she lives; for my new love is complete in itself, and has not robbed you
of one bit of the love that has always been your very own."

The miller turned and looked into her blue eyes, and knew that she spoke
truly.

"Then I must learn a new song again," he said, "for it is lonely at the mill, and
singing makes the heart lighter. But I will promise that never again, till you forget me,
will I sing that nobody cares for me."

And the miller did learn a new song, and sang it right merrily for many years; for
each day Nathalie came down to the mill to show that she had not forgotten him.

The Little Man and His Little Gun

There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He went to the brook and shot a little duck,
And the bullet went right through its head, head, head.

There was once a little man named Jimson, who had stopped growing when he was a
boy, and never started again. So, although he was old enough to be a man he was hardly big
enough, and had he not owned a bald head and gray whiskers you would certainly have taken
him for a boy whenever you saw him.

This little man was very sorry he was not bigger, and if you wanted to make him
angry you had but to call attention to his size. He dressed just as big men do, and wore a
silk hat and a long-tailed coat when he went to church, and a cap and top-boots when he
rode horseback. He walked with a little cane and had a little umbrella made to carry when
it rained. In fact, whatever other men did this little man was anxious to do also, and so
it happened that when the hunting season came around, and all the men began to get their
guns ready to hunt for snipe and duck, Mr. Jimson also had a little gun made, and
determined to use it as well as any of them.

When he brought it home and showed it to his wife, who was a very big woman, she
said,

"Jimson, you'd better use bullets made of bread, and then you won't hurt
anything."

"Nonsense, Joan," replied the little man, "I shall have bullets made of lead, just
as other men do, and every duck I see I shall shoot and bring home to you."

"I'm afraid you won't kill many," said Joan.

But the little man believed he could shoot with the best of them, so the next
morning he got up early and took his little gun and started down to the brook to hunt for
duck.

It was scarcely daybreak when he arrived at the brook, and the sun had not yet
peeped over the eastern hill-tops, but no duck appeared anywhere in sight, although Mr.
Jimson knew this was the right time of day for shooting them. So he sat down beside the
brook and begun watching, and before he knew it he had fallen fast asleep.

By and by he was awakened by a peculiar noise.

"Quack, quack, quack!" sounded in his ears; and looking up he saw a pretty little
duck swimming in the brook and popping its head under the water in search of something to
eat. The duck belonged to Johnny Sprigg, who lived a little way down the brook, but the
little man did not know this. He thought it was a wild duck, so he stood up and carefully
took aim.

"I'm afraid I can't hit it from here," he thought, "so I'll just step on that big
stone in the brook, and shoot from there."

So he stepped out on the stone, and took aim at the duck again, and fired the
gun.

The next minute the little man had tumbled head over heels into the water, and he
nearly drowned before he could scramble out again; for, not being used to shooting, the
gun had kicked, or recoiled, and had knocked him off the round stone where he had been
standing.

When he had succeeded in reaching the bank he was overjoyed to see that he had
shot the duck, which lay dead on the water a short distance away. The little man got a
long stick, and, reaching it out, drew the dead duck to the bank. Then he started joyfully
homeward to show the prize to his wife.

"There, Joan," he said, as he entered the house, "is a nice little duck for our
dinner. Do you now think your husband cannot shoot?"

"But there's only one duck," remarked his wife, "and it's very small. Can't you go
and shoot another? Then we shall have enough for dinner."

"Yes, of course I can shoot another," said the little man, proudly; "you make a
fire and get the pot boiling, and I'll go for another duck."

"You'd better shoot a drake this time," said Joan, "for drakes are
bigger."

She started to make the fire, and the little man took his gun and went to the
brook; but not a duck did he see, nor drake neither, and so he was forced to come home
without any game.

"There's no use cooking one duck," said his wife, "so we'll have pork and beans
for dinner and I'll hang the little duck in the shed. Perhaps you'll be able to shoot a
drake to-morrow, and then we'll cook them both together."

So they had pork and beans, to the great disappointment of Mr. Jimson, who had
expected to eat duck instead; and after dinner the little man lay down to take a nap while
his wife went out to tell the neighbors what a great hunter he was.

The news spread rapidly through the town, and when the evening paper came out the
little man was very angry to see this verse printed in it:

There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He went to the brook and shot a little duck,
And the bullet went right through its head, head, head.

He carried it home to his good wife Joan,
And bade her a fire to make, make, make,
While he went to the brook where he shot the little duck,
And tried for to shoot the drake, drake, drake.

"There's no use putting it into the paper," exclaimed the little man, much
provoked, "and Mr. Brayer, the editor, is probably jealous because he himself cannot shoot
a gun. Perhaps people think I cannot shoot a drake, but I 'll show them to-morrow that I
can!"

So the next morning he got up early again, and took his gun, and loaded it with
bullets made of lead. Then he said to his wife,

"What does a drake look like, my love?"

"Why," she replied, "it's much like a duck, only it has a curl on its tail and red
on its wing."

"All right," he answered, "I'll bring you home a drake in a short time, and to-day
we shall have something better for dinner than pork and beans."

When he got to the brook there was nothing in sight, so he sat down on the bank to
watch, and again fell fast asleep.

Now Johnny Sprigg had missed his little duck, and knew some one had shot it; so he
thought this morning he would go the brook and watch for the man who had killed the duck,
and make him pay a good price for it. Johnny was a big man, whose head was very bald;
therefore he wore a red curly wig to cover his baldness and make him look
younger.

When he got to the brook he saw no one about, and so he hid in a clump of bushes.
After a time the little man woke up, and in looking around for the drake he saw Johnny's
red wig sticking out of the top of the bushes.

"That is surely the drake," he thought, "for I can see a curl and something red;"
and the next minute "bang!" went the gun, and Johnny Sprigg gave a great yell and jumped
out of the bushes. As for his beautiful wig, it was shot right off his head, and fell into
the water of the brook a good ten yards away!

"What are you trying to do?" he cried, shaking his fist at the little
man.

"Why, I was only shooting at the drake," replied Jimson; "and I hit it, too, for
there it is in the water.

"That's my wig, sir!" said Johnny Sprigg, "and you shall pay for it, or I'll have
the law on you. Are you the man who shot the duck here yesterday morning?"

"I am, sir," answered the little man, proud that he had shot something besides a
wig.

"Well, you shall pay for that also," said Mr. Sprigg; "for it belonged to me, and
I'll have the money or I 'll put you in jail!"

The little man did not want to go to jail, so with a heavy heart he paid for the
wig and the duck, and then took his way sorrowfully homeward.

He did not tell Joan of his meeting with Mr. Sprigg; he only said he could not
find a drake. But she knew all about it when the paper came out, for this is what it said
on the front page:

There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He shot Johnny Sprigg through the middle of his wig,
And knocked it right off from his head, head, head.

The little man was so angry at this, and at the laughter of all the men he met,
that he traded his gun off for a lawn-mower, and resolved never to go hunting
again.

He had the little duck he had shot made into a pie, and he and Joan ate it; but he
did not enjoy it very much.

"This duck cost me twelve dollars," he said to his loving wife, "for that is the
sum Johnny Sprigg made me pay; and it's a very high price for one little duck—don't
you think so, Joan?"

Hickory, Dickory, Dock

Within the hollow wall of an old brick mansion, away up near the roof, there lived
a family of mice. It was a snug little home, pleasant and quiet, and as dark as any mouse
could desire. Mamma Mouse liked it because, as she said, the draught that came through the
rafters made it cool in summer, and they were near enough to the chimney to keep warm in
wintertime.

Besides the Mamma Mouse there were three children, named Hickory and Dickory and
Dock. There had once been a Papa Mouse as well; but while he was hunting for food one
night he saw a nice piece of cheese in a wire box, and attempted to get it. The minute he
stuck his head into the box, however, it closed with a snap that nearly cut his head off;
and when Mamma Mouse came down to look for him he was quite dead.

Mamma Mouse had to bear her bitter sorrow all alone, for the children were too
young at that time to appreciate their loss. She felt that people were cruel to kill a
poor mouse for wishing to get food for himself and his family. There is nothing else for a
mouse to do but take what he can find, for mice can not earn money, as people do, and they
must live in some way.

But Mamma Mouse was a brave mouse, and knew that it was now her duty to find food
for her little ones; so she dried her eyes and went bravely to work gnawing through the
baseboard that separated the pantry from the wall. It took her some time to do this, for
she could only work at night. Mice like to sleep during the day and work at night, when
there are no people around to interrupt them, and even the cat is fast asleep. Some mice
run about in the daytime, but they are not very wise mice who do this.

At last Mamma Mouse gnawed a hole through the baseboard large enough for her to
get through into the pantry, and then her disappointment was great to find the bread jar
covered over with a tin pan.

"How thoughtless people are to put things where a hungry mouse cannot get at
them," said Mamma Mouse to herself, with a sigh. But just then she espied a barrel of
flour standing on the floor; and that gave her new courage, for she knew she could easily
gnaw through that, and the flour would do to eat just as well as the bread.

It was now nearly daylight, so she decided to leave the attack on the flour barrel
till the next night; and gathering up for the children a few crumbs that were scattered
about, she ran back into the wall and scrambled up to her nest.

Hickory and Dickory and Dock were very glad to get the crumbs, for they were
hungry; and when they had breakfasted they all curled up alongside their mother and slept
soundly throughout the day.

"Be good children," said Mamma Mouse the next evening, as she prepared for her
journey to the pantry, "and don't stir out of your nest till I come back. I am in hopes
that after tonight we shall not be hungry for a long time, as I shall gnaw a hole at the
back of the flour barrel, where it will not be discovered."

She kissed each one of them good-bye and ran down the wall on her
errand.

When they were left alone Hickory wanted to go to sleep again, but little Dock was
wide awake, and tumbled around so in the nest that his brothers were unable to
sleep.

"I wish I could go with mother some night," said Dock, "it's no fun to stay here
all the time."

"She will take us when we are big enough," replied Dickory.

"We are big enough now," declared Dock, "and if I knew my way I would go out into
the world and see what it looks like."

"I know a way out," said Hickory, "but mamma wouldn't like it if we should go
without her permission."

"She needn't know anything about it," declared the naughty Dock, "for she will be
busy at the flour-barrel all the night. Take us out for a little walk, Hick, if you know
the way."

"Yes, do," urged Dickory.

"Well," said Hickory, "I'd like a little stroll myself; so if you'll promise to be
very careful, and not get into any mischief, I'll take you through the hole that I have
discovered."

So the three little mice started off, with Hickory showing the way, and soon came
to a crack in the wall. Hickory stuck his head through, and finding everything quiet, for
the family of people that lived in the house were fast asleep, he squeezed through the
crack, followed by his two brothers. Their little hearts beat very fast, for they knew if
they were discovered they would have to run for their lives; but the house was so still
they gained courage, and crept along over a thick carpet till they came to a
stairway.

"What shall we do now?" whispered Hickory to his brothers.

"Let's go down," replied Dock.

So, very carefully, they descended the stairs and reached the hallway of the
house, and here they were much surprised by all they saw.

There was a big rack for hats and coats, and an umbrella stand, and two quaintly
carved chairs, and, most wonderful of all, a tall clock that stood on the floor and ticked
out the minutes in a grave and solemn voice.

When the little mice first heard the ticking of the clock they were inclined to be
frightened, and huddled close together on the bottom stair.

"What is it?" asked Dickory, in an awed whisper. "I don't know," replied Hickory,
who was himself rather afraid.

"Is it alive?" asked Dock.

"I don't know," again answered Hickory.

Then, seeing that the clock paid no attention to them, but kept ticking steadily
away and seemed to mind its own business, they plucked up courage and began running
about.

Presently Dickory uttered a delighted squeal that brought his brothers to his
side. There in a corner lay nearly the half of a bun which little May had dropped when
nurse carried her upstairs to bed. It was a great discovery for the three mice, and they
ate heartily till the last crumb had disappeared.

"This is better than a cupboard or a pantry," said Dock, when they had finished
their supper, "and I should n't be surprised if there were plenty more good things around
if we only hunt for them."

But they could find nothing more, for all the doors leading into the hall were
closed, and at last Dock came to the clock and looked at it curiously.

"It doesn't seem to be alive," he thought, "although it does make so much noise.
I'm going behind it to see what I can find."

He found nothing except a hole that led to inside of the clock, and into this he
stuck his head. He could hear the ticking plainer than ever now, but looking way up to the
top of the clock he saw something shining brightly, and thought it must good to eat if he
could only get at it. Without saying anything to his brothers, Dock ran up the sides of
the clock till he came to the works, and he was just about to nibble at a glistening
wheel, to see what it tasted like, when suddenly "Bang!" went the clock.

It was one o'clock, and the clock had only struck the hour; but the great gong was
just beside Dock's ear and the noise nearly deafened the poor little mouse. He gave a
scream of terror and ran down the clock as fast as he could go. When he reached the hall
he heard his brothers scampering up the stairs, and after them he ran with all his
might.

It was only when they were safe in their nest again that they stopped to breathe,
and their little hearts beat fast for an hour afterward, so great had been their
terror.

When Mamma Mouse came back in the morning, bringing a quantity of nice flour with
her for breakfast, they told her of their adventure. She thought they had been punished
enough already for their disobedience, so she did not scold them, but only said,

"You see, my dears, your mother knew best when she told you not to stir from the
nest. Children sometimes think they know more than their parents, but this adventure
should teach you always to obey your mother. The next time you run away you may fare worse
than you did last night; remember your poor father's fate."

On the beautiful, undulating hills of Sussex feed many flocks of sheep, which are tended
by many shepherds and shepherdesses, and one of these flocks used to be cared for by a
poor woman who supported herself and her little girl by this means.

They lived in a small cottage nestled at the foot of one of the hills, and each
morning the mother took her crook and started out with her sheep, that they might feed on
the tender, juicy grasses with which the hills abounded. The little girl usually
accompanied her mother and sat by her side on the grassy mounds and watched her care for
the ewes and lambs, so that in time she herself grew to be a very proficient
shepherdess.

So when the mother became too old and feeble to leave her cottage, Little Bo-Peep
(as she was called) decided that she was fully able to manage the flocks herself. She was
a little mite of a child, with flowing nut-brown locks and big gray eyes that charmed all
who gazed into their innocent depths. She wore a light gray frock, fastened about the
waist with a pretty pink sash, and there were white ruffles around her neck and pink
ribbons in her hair.

All the shepherds and shepherdesses on the hills, both young and old, soon came to
know Little Bo-Peep very well indeed, and there were many willing hands to aid her if
(which was not often) she needed their assistance.

Bo-Peep usually took her sheep to the side of a high hill above the cottage, and
allowed them to eat the rich grass while she herself sat on a mound and, laying aside her
crook and her broad straw hat with its pink ribbons, devoted her time to sewing and
mending stockings for her aged mother.

One day, while thus occupied, she heard a voice beside her say:

"Good morning, Little Bo-Peep!" and looking up the girl saw a woman standing near
her and leaning on a short stick. She was bent nearly double by weight of many years, her
hair was white as snow and her eyes as black as coals. Deep wrinkles seamed her face and
hands, while her nose and chin were so pointed that they nearly met. She was not pleasant
to look on, but Bo-Peep had learned to be polite to the aged, so she answered,
sweetly,

"Good morning, mother. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, dearie," returned the woman, in a cracked voice, "but I will sit by your side
and rest for a time."

The girl made room on the mound beside her, and the stranger sat down and watched
in silence the busy fingers sew up the seams of the new frock she was making.

By and by the woman asked,

"Why do you come out here to sew?"

"Because I am a shepherdess," replied the girl.

"But where is your crook?"

"On the grass beside me."

"And where are your sheep?"

Bo-Peep looked up and could not see them.

"They must have strayed over the top of the hill," she said, "and I will go and
seek them."

"Do not be in a hurry," croaked the old woman; "they will return presently without
your troubling to find them."

"Do you think so?" asked Bo-Peep.

"Of course; do not the sheep know you?"

"Oh, yes; they know me every one."

"And do not you know the sheep?"

"I can call every one by name," said Bo-Peep, confidently; "for though I am so
young a shepherdess I am fond of my sheep and know all about them."

The old woman chuckled softly, as if the answer amused her, and replied,

"No one knows all about anything, my dear."

"But I know all about my sheep," protested Little Bo-Peep.

"Do you, indeed? Then you are wiser that most people. And if you know all about
them, you also know they will come home of their own accord, and I have no doubt they will
all be wagging their tails behind them, as usual."

"Oh," said Little Bo-Peep, in surprise, "do they wag their tails? I never noticed
that!"

"Indeed!" exclaimed the old woman, "then you are not very observing for one who
knows all about sheep. Perhaps you have never noticed their tails at all."

The woman laughed so hard at this reply that she began to cough, and this made the
girl remember that her flock had strayed away.

"I really must go and find my sheep," she said, rising to her feet, "and then I
shall be sure to notice their tails, and see if they wag them."

"Sit still, my child," said the old woman, "I am going over the hill-top myself,
and I will send the sheep back to you."

So she got on her feet and began climbing the hill, and the girl heard her saying,
as she walked away,

"Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And doesn't know where to find them.
But leave them alone, and they'll come home,
All wagging their tails behind them."

Little Bo-Peep sat still and watched the old woman toil slowly up the hill-side
and disappear over the top. By and by she thought, "very soon I shall see the sheep coming
back;" but time passed away and still the errant flock failed to make its
appearance.

Soon the head of the little shepherdess began to nod, and presently, still
thinking of her sheep,

Little Bo-Peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke she found it a joke,
For still they were a-fleeting.

The girl now became quite anxious, and wondered why the old woman had not driven
her flock over the hill. But as it was now time for luncheon she opened her little basket
and ate of the bread and cheese and cookies she had brought with her. After she had
finished her meal and taken a drink of cool water from a spring near by, she decided she
would not wait any longer.

So up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them,

and began climbing the hill.

When she got to the top there was never a sight of sheep about—only a green
valley and another hill beyond.

Now really alarmed for the safety of her charge, Bo-Peep hurried into the valley
and up the farther hill-side. Panting and tired she reached the summit, and, pausing
breathlessly, gazed below her.

Quietly feeding on the rich grass was her truant flock, looking as peaceful and
innocent as if it had never strayed away from its gentle shepherdess.

Bo-Peep uttered a cry of joy and hurried toward them; but when she came near she
stopped in amazement and held up her little hands with a pretty expression of dismay. She
had

Found them, indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left their tails behind them!

Nothing was left to each sheep but a wee little stump where a tail should be, and
Little Bo-Peep was so heart-broken that she sat down beside them and sobbed
bitterly.

But after awhile the tiny maid realized that all her tears would not bring back
the tails to her lambkins; so she plucked up courage and dried her eyes and arose from the
ground just as the old woman hobbled up to her.

"So you have found your sheep, dearie," she said, in her cracked voice.

"Why, so they have!" exclaimed the old woman; and then she began to laugh as if
something pleased her.

"What do you suppose has become of their tails?" asked the girl.

"Oh, some one has probably cut them off. They make nice tippets in winter-time,
you know;" and then she patted the child on her head and walked away down the
valley.

Bo-Peep was much grieved over the loss that had befallen her dear sheep, and so,
driving them before her, she wandered around to see if by any chance she could find the
lost tails.

But soon the sun began to sink over the hill-tops, and she knew she must take her
sheep home before night overtook them.

She did not tell her mother of her misfortune, for she feared the old shepherdess
would scold her, and Bo-Peep had fully decided to seek for the tails and find them before
she related the story of their loss to anyone.

Each day for many days after that Little Bo-Peep wandered about the hills seeking
the tails of her sheep, and those who met her wondered what had happened to make the sweet
little maid so anxious. But there is an end to all troubles, no matter how severe they
may seem to be, and

It happened one day, as Bo-Peep did stray
To a meadow hard by,
There she espied their tails side by side.
All hung on a tree to dry!

The little shepherdess was overjoyed at this discovery, and, reaching up her
crook, she knocked the row of pretty white tails off the tree and gathered them up in her
frock. But how to fasten them onto her sheep again was the question, and after pondering
the matter for a time she became discouraged, and, thinking she was no better off than
before the tails were found, she began to weep and to bewail her misfortune.

But amidst her tears she bethought herself of her needle and thread.

"Why," she exclaimed, smiling again, "I can sew them on, of course!"
Then

She heaved a sigh and wiped her eye
And ran over hill and dale, oh.
And tried what she could
As a shepherdess should,
To tack to each sheep its tail, oh.

But the very first sheep she came to refused to allow her to sew on the tail, and
ran away from her, and the others did the same, so that finally she was utterly
discouraged.

She was beginning to cry again, when the same old woman she had before met came
hobbling to her side and asked,

"What are you doing with my cat tails?"

"Your cat tails!" replied Bo-Peep, in surprise; "what do you mean?"

"Why, these tails are all cut from white pussycats, and I put them on the tree to
dry. What are you doing with them?"

"I thought they belonged to my sheep," answered Bo-Peep, sorrowfully; "but if they
are really your pussy-cat tails, I must hunt till I find those that belong to my
sheep."

"My dear," said the old woman, "I have been deceiving you; you said you knew all
about your sheep, and I wanted to teach you a lesson. For, however wise we may be, no one
in this world knows all about anything. Sheep do not have long tails—there is only a
little stump to answer for a tail. Neither do rabbits have tails, nor bears, nor many
other animals. And if you had been observing you would have known all this when I said the
sheep would be wagging their tails behind them, and then you would not have passed all
those days in searching for what is not to be found. So now, little one, run away home,
and try to be more thoughtful in the future. Your sheep will never miss the tails, for
they have never had them."

And now

Little Bo-Peep no more did weep;
My tale of tails ends here.
Each cat has one,
But sheep have none;
Which, after all, is queer!

The Story of Tommy Tucker

Little Tommy Tucker san for his supper.
What did he sing for? white bread and butter.
How could he cut it, without any knife?
How could he marry, without any wife?

Little Tommy Tucker was a waif of the streets. He never remembered having a
father or mother or anyone to care for him, and so he learned to care for himself. He ate
whatever he could get, and slept wherever night overtook him—in an old barrel, a
cellar, or, when fortune favored him, he paid a penny for a cot in some rude
lodging-house.

His life about the streets taught him early how to earn a living by doing odd
jobs, and he learned to be sharp in his speech and wise beyond his years.

One morning Tommy crawled out from a box in which he had slept over night, and
found that he was hungry. His last meal had consisted of a crust of bread, and he was a
growing boy with an appetite.

He had been unable to earn any money for several days, and this morning life
looked very gloomy to him. He started out to seek for work or to beg a breakfast; but luck
was against him, and he was unsuccessful. By noon he had grown more hungry than before,
and stood before a bake-shop for a long time, looking wistfully at the good things behind
the window-panes, and wishing with all his heart he had a ha'penny to buy a bun.

And yet it was no new thing for Little Tommy Tucker to be hungry, and he never
thought of despairing. He sat down on a curb-stone, and thought what was best to be done.
Then he remembered he had frequently begged a meal at one of the cottages that stood on
the outskirts of the city, and so he turned his steps in that direction.

"I have had neither breakfast nor dinner," he said to himself, "and I must surely
find a supper somewhere, or I shall not sleep much to-night. It is no fun to be
hungry."

So he walked on till he came to a dwelling-house where a goodly company sat on a
lawn and beneath a veranda. It was a pretty place, and was the home of a fat alderman who
had been married that very day.

The alderman was in a merry mood, and seeing Tommy standing without the gate he
cried to him,

"Come here, my lad, and sing us a song."

Tommy at once entered the grounds, and came to where the fat alderman was sitting
beside his blushing bride.

"Can you sing?" asked the alderman.

"No," answered Tommy, earnestly, "but I can eat."

"Ho, ho!" laughed the alderman, "that is a very ordinary accomplishment. Anyone
can eat."

"If it please you, sir, you are wrong," replied Tommy, "for I have been unable to
eat all day."

"And why is that?" asked the alderman.

"Because I have had nothing to put to my mouth. But now that I have met so kind a
gentleman, I am sure that I shall have a good supper."

The alderman laughed again at this shrewd answer, and said, "you shall have
supper, no doubt; but you must sing a song for the company first, and so earn your
food."

Tommy shook his head sadly.

"I do not know any song, sir," he said.

The alderman called a servant and whispered something in his ear. The servant
hastened away, and soon returned bearing on a tray a huge slice of white bread and butter.
White bread was a rare treat in those days, as nearly all the people ate black bread baked
from rye or barley flour.

"Now," said the alderman, placing the tray beside him, "you shall have this slice
of white bread and butter when you have sung us a song, and complied with one
condition."

"And what is that condition?" asked Tommy.

"I will tell you when we have heard the song," replied the fat alderman, who had
decided to have some amusement at the boy's expense.

Tommy hesitated, but when he glanced at the white bread and butter his mouth
watered in spite of himself, and he resolved to compose a song, since he did not know how
to sing any other.

So he took off his cap, and standing before the company he sang as
follows:

A bumble-bee lit on a hollyhock flower
That was wet with the rain of a morning shower.
While the honey he sipped
His left foot slipped,
And he couldn't fly again for half an hour!

"Good!" cried the alderman, after the company had kindly applauded Tommy. "I can't
say much for the air, nor yet for the words; but it was not so bad as it might have been.
Give us another verse."

So Tommy pondered a moment, and then sang again:

"A spider threw its web so high
It caught on a moon in a cloudy sky.
The moon whirled round,
And down to the ground
Fell the web, and captured a big blue fly!"

"Why, that is fine!" roared the fat alderman. "You improve as you go on, so give
us another verse."

"I don't know any more," said Tommy, "and I am very hungry."

"One more verse," persisted the man, "and then you shall have the bread and butter
on the condition."

So Tommy sang the following verse:

"A big frog lived in a slimy bog,
And caught a cold in an awful fog.
The cold got worse,
The frog got hoarse,
Till croaking he scared a polliwog!"

"You are quite a poet," declared the alderman; "and now you shall have the white
bread on one condition."

"What is it?" said Tommy, anxiously.

"That you cut the slice into four parts."

"But I have no knife!" remonstrated the boy.

"But that is the condition," insisted the alderman. "If you want the bread you
must cut it."

"Surely you do not expect me to cut the bread without any knife!" said
Tommy.

"Why not?" asked the alderman, winking his eye at the company.

"Because it cannot be done. How, let me ask you, sir, could you have married
without any wife?"

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the jolly alderman; and he was so pleased with Tommy's apt
reply that he gave him the bread at once, and a knife to cut it with

"Thank you, sir," said Tommy; "now that I have the knife it is easy enough to cut
the bread, and I shall now be as happy as you are with your beautiful wife."

The alderman's wife blushed at this, and whispered to her husband. The alderman
nodded in reply, and watched Tommy carefully as he ate his supper. When the boy had
finished his bread—which he did very quickly, you may be sure,—the man
said,

"How would you like to live with me and be my servant?"

Little Tommy Tucker had often longed for just such a place, where he could have
three meals each day to eat and a good bed to sleep in at night, so he answered,

"I should like it very much, sir."

So the alderman took Tommy for his servant, and dressed him in a smart livery; and
soon the boy showed by his bright ways and obedience that he was worthy any kindness
bestowed on him.

He often carried the alderman's wig when his master attended the town meetings,
and the mayor of the city, who was a good man, was much taken with his intelligent face.
So one day he said to the alderman,

"I have long wanted to adopt a son, for I have no children of my own; but I have
not yet been able to find a boy to suit me. That lad of yours looks bright and
intelligent, and he seems a well-behaved boy into the bargain."

"He is all that you say," returned the alderman, "and would be a credit to you
should you adopt him."

"But before I adopt a son," went on the mayor, "I intend to satisfy myself that he
is both wise and shrewd enough to make good use of my money when I am gone. No fool will
serve my purpose; therefore I shall test the boy's wit before I decide."

"That is fair enough," answered the alderman; "but in what way will you test his
wit?"

"Bring him to my house to-morrow, and you shall see," said the mayor.

So the next day the alderman, followed by Tommy and a little terrier dog that was
a great pet of his master, went to the grand dwelling of the mayor. The mayor also had a
little terrier dog, which was very fond of him and followed him wherever he
went.

When Tommy and the alderman reached the mayor's house the mayor met them at the
door and said:

"Tommy, I am going up the street, and the alderman is going in the opposite
direction. I want you to keep our dogs from following us; but you must not do it by
holding them."

"Very well, sir," replied Tommy; and as the mayor started one way and the alderman
the other, he took out his handkerchief and tied the tails of the two dogs together. Of
course each dog started to follow its master; but as they were about the same size and
strength, and each pulled in a different direction, the result was that they remained in
one place, and could not move either one way or the other.

"That was well done," said the mayor, coming I back again; "but tell me, can you
put my cart before my horse and take me to ride?"

"Certainly, sir," replied Tommy; and going to the mayor's stable he put the
harness on the nag and then led him head-first into the shafts, instead of backing him
into them, as is the usual way. After fastening the shafts to the horse, he mounted on the
animal's back, and away they started, pushing the cart before the horse.

"That was easy," said Tommy. "If your honor will get into the cart I'll take you
to ride." But the mayor did not ride, although he was pleased at Tommy's readiness in
solving a difficulty.

After a moment's thought he bade Tommy follow him into the house, where he gave
him a cupful of water, saying,

"Let me see you drink up this cup of water."

Tommy hesitated a moment, for he knew the mayor was trying to catch him; then,
going to a corner of the room, he set down the cup and stood on his head in the corner. He
now carefully raised the cup to his lips and slowly drank the water till the cup was
empty. After this he regained his feet, and, bowing politely to the mayor, he
said,

"The water is drunk up, your honor."

"But why did you stand on your head to do it?" asked the alderman, who had watched
the act in astonishment.

"Because otherwise I would have drunk the water down, and not up," replied
Tommy.

The mayor was now satisfied that Tommy was shrewd enough to do him honor, so he at
once took him to live in the great house as his adopted son, and he was educated by the
best masters the city afforded.

And Tommy Tucker became in after years not only a great, but a good man, and
before he died was himself mayor of the city, and was known by the name of Sir Thomas
Tucker.

Pussy-cat Mew

"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where do you go?"
"To London, to visit the palace, you know."
"Pussy-cat Mew, will you come back again?"
"Oh, yes! I'll scamper with might and with main!"

Pussy-cat Mew set off on her way,
Stepping quite softly and feeling quite gay.
Smooth was the road, so she traveled at ease,
Warmed by the sunshine and fanned by the breeze.

Over the hills to the valleys below,
Through the deep woods where the soft mosses grow,
Skirting the fields, with buttercups dotted,
Swiftly our venturesome Pussy-cat trotted.

Sharp watch she kept when a village she neared,
For boys and their mischief our Pussy-cat feared!
Often she crept through the grasses so deep
To pass by a dog that was lying asleep.

Once, as she walked through a sweet-clover field,
Something beside her affrightedly squealed,
And swift from her path there darted away
A tiny field-mouse, with a coat of soft gray.

"Nowhere," thought our Pussy, "is chance for a dinner;
The one that runs fastest must surely be winner!"
So quickly she started the mouse to give chase,
And over the clover they ran a great race.

But just when it seemed that Pussy would win,
The mouse spied a hole and quickly popped in;
And so he escaped, for the hole was so small
That Pussy-cat couldn't squeeze in it at all.

So, softly she crouched, and with eyes big and round
Quite steadily watched that small hole in the ground
"This mouse really thinks he's escaped me," she said,
"But I'll catch him sure if he sticks out his head!"

But while she was watching the poor mouse's plight,
A deep growl behind made her jump with affright;
She gave a great cry, and then started to run
As swift as a bullet that's shot from a gun!

"Meow! Oh, meow "our poor Puss did say;
"Bow-wow!" cried the dog, who was not far away.
Over meadows and ditches they scampered apace,
Over fences and hedges they kept up the race!

Then Pussy-cat Mew saw before her a tree,
And knew that a safe place of refuge't would be;
So far up the tree with a bound she did go,
And left the big dog to growl down below.

But now, by good fortune, a man came that way,
And called to the dog, who was forced to obey;
But Puss did not come down the tree till she knew
That the man and the dog were far out of view.

Pursuing her way, at nightfall she came
To London, a town you know well by name;
And wandering'round in byway and street,
A strange Pussy-cat she happened to meet.

"Good evening," said Pussy-cat Mew. "Can you tell
In which of these houses the Queen may now dwell?
I'm a stranger in town, and I'm anxious to see
What sort of a person a real Queen may be."

"My friend," said the other, "you really must know
It isn't permitted that strangers should go
Inside of the palace, unless they're invited,
And stray Pussy-cats are apt to be slighted.

"By good luck, however, I'm quite well aware
Of a way to the palace by means of a stair
That never is guarded; so just come with me,
And a glimpse of the Queen you shall certainly see."

Puss thanked her new friend, and together they stole
To the back of the palace, and crept through a hole
In the fence, and quietly came to the stair
Which the stranger Pussy-cat promised was there.

"Now here I must leave you," the strange Pussy said,
"So don't be'fraid-cat, but go straight ahead,
And don't be alarmed if by chance you are seen,
For people will think you belong to the queen."

So Pussy-cat Mew did as she had been told,
And walked through the palace with manner so bold
She soon reached the room where the queen sat in state,
Surrounded by lords and by ladies so great.

And there in the corner our Pussy sat down,
And gazed at the scepter and blinked at the crown,
And eyed the Queen's dress, all purple and gold;
Which was surely a beautiful sight to behold.

But all of a sudden she started, for there
Was a little gray mouse, right under the chair
Where her Majesty sat, and Pussy well knew
She'd scream with alarm if the mouse met her view.

So up toward the chair our Pussy-cat stole,
But the mouse saw her coming and ran for its hole;
But Pussy ran after, and during the race
A wonderful, terrible panic took place!

The ladies all jumped on their chairs in alarm,
The lords drew their swords to protect them from harm,
And the Queen gave a scream and fainted away—
A very undignified act, I must say.

And some one cried "Burglars!" and some one cried "Treason!"
And some one cried "Murder!" but none knew the reason;
And some one cried "Fire! they are burning the house!"
And some one cried "Silence! it's only a mouse!"

But Pussy-cat Mew was so awfully scared
By the shouting and screaming, no longer she dared
To stay in the room; so without more delay
She rushed from the palace and scampered away!

So bristling her fur, and with heart beating fast,
She came to the road leading homeward at last.
"What business," she thought, "has a poor country cat
To visit a city of madmen like that?

"Straight homeward I'll go, where I am well fed,
Where mistress is kind, and soft is my bed;
Let other cats travel, if they wish to roam,
But as for myself, I shall now stay at home."

And now over hills and valleys she ran,
And journeyed as fast as a Pussy-cat can;
Till just as the dawn of the day did begin
She, safely at home, stole quietly in.

And there was the fire, with the pot boiling on it,
And there was the maid, in the blue checkered bonnet
And there was the corner where Pussy oft basked,
And there was the mistress, who eagerly asked:

"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where have you been?"
"I've been to London, to visit the queen."
"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, what did you there?"
"I frightened a little mouse under her chair!"

How the Beggars Came to Town

Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town:
Some in rags, and some in tags,
And some in velvet gown.

Very fair and sweet was little prince Lilimond, and few could resist his soft,
pleading voice and gentle blue eyes. And as he stood in the presence of the king, his
father, and bent his knee gracefully before His Majesty, the act was so courteous and
dignified it would have honored the oldest noble man of the court.

The king was delighted, and for a time sat silently regarding his son and noting
every detail of his appearance, from the dark velvet suit with its dainty ruffles and
collar to the diamond buckles on the little shoes, and back again to the flowing curls
that clustered thick about the bright, childish face.

Well might any father be proud of so manly and beautiful a child, and the king's
heart swelled within him as he gazed on his heir.

"Borland," he said to the tutor, who stood modestly behind the prince, "you may
retire. I wish to sneak privately with his royal highness."

The tutor bowed low and disappeared within the ante-room, and the king went on,
kindly,

"It is my birthday, Your Majesty," replied the prince, as he slowly obeyed his
father and sat beside him on the rich broidered cushions of the throne. "I am twelve years
of age."

"So old!" said the king, smiling into the little face that was raised to his. "And
is it the weight of years that makes you sad?"

"No, Your Majesty; I long for the years to pass, that I may become a man, and take
my part in the world's affairs. It is the sad condition of my country which troubles
me."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the king, casting a keen glance at his son. "Are you becoming
interested in politics, then; or is there some grievous breach of court etiquette which
has attracted your attention?"

"I know little of politics and less of the court, sire," replied Lilimond; "it is
the distress of the people that worries me."

"The people? Of a surety, prince, you are better posted than am I, since of the
people and their affairs I know nothing at all. I have appointed officers to look after
their interests, and therefore I have no cause to come into contact with them myself. But
what is amiss?"

"They are starving," said the prince, looking at his father very seriously; "the
country is filled with beggars, who appeal for charity, since they are unable otherwise to
procure food."

"Starving!" repeated the king; "surely you are misinformed. My Lord Chamberlain
told me but this morning the people were loyal and contented, and my Lord of the Treasury
reports that all taxes and tithes have been paid, and my coffers are running
over."

"Your Lord Chamberlain is wrong, sire," returned the prince; "my tutor, Borland,
and I have talked with many of these beggars the past few days, and we find the tithes and
taxes which have enriched you have taken the bread from their wives and
children."

"So!" exclaimed the king. "We must examine into this matter." He touched a bell
beside him, and when a retainer appeared directed his Chamberlain and his Treasurer to
wait on him at once.

The prince rested his head on his hand and waited patiently, but the king was very
impatient indeed till the high officers of the court stood before him. Then said the king,
addressing his Chamberlain,

"Sir, I am informed my people are murmuring at my injustice. Is it
true?"

The officer cast an enquiring glance at the prince, who met his eyes gravely,
before he replied,

"The people always murmur, Your Majesty. They are many, and not all can be
content, even when ruled by so wise and just a king. In every land and in every age there
are those who rebel against the laws, and the protests of the few are ever heard above the
contentment of the many."

"I am told," went on the king, severely, "that my country is overrun with beggars,
who suffer for lack of the bread we have taken from them by our taxations. Is this
true?"

"There are always beggars, Your Majesty, in every country," replied the
Chamberlain, "and it is their custom to blame others for their own misfortunes."

The king thought deeply for a moment; then he turned to the Lord of the
Treasury.

"Do we tax the poor?" he demanded.

"All are taxed, sire," returned the Treasurer, who was pale from anxiety, for
never before had the king so questioned him, "but from the rich we take much, from the
poor very little."

"But a little from the poor man may distress him, while the rich subject would
never feel the loss. Why do we tax the poor at all?"

"Because, Your Majesty, should we declare the poor free from taxation all your
subjects would at once claim to be poor, and the royal treasury would remain empty. And as
none are so rich but there are those richer, how should we, in justice, determine which
are the rich and which are the poor?"

Again the king was silent while he pondered on the words of the Royal Treasurer.
Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed them, and turned to the prince,
saying, "You have heard the wise words of my councilors, prince. What have you to say in
reply?"

"If you will pardon me, Your Majesty, I think you are wrong to leave the affairs
of the people to others to direct. If you knew them as well as I do, you would distrust
the words of your councilors, who naturally fear your anger more than they do that of your
subjects."

"If they fear my anger they will be careful to do no injustice to my people.
Surely you cannot expect me to attend to levying the taxes myself," went on the king, with
growing annoyance. "What are my officers for, but to serve me?"

"They should serve you, it is true," replied the prince, thoughtfully, "but they
should serve the people as well."

"Nonsense!" answered the king; "you are too young as yet to properly understand
such matters. And it is a way youth has to imagine it is wiser than age and experience
combined. Still, I will investigate the subject further, and see that justice is done the
poor."

"In the meantime," said the prince, "many will starve to death. Can you not
assist these poor beggars at once?"

"In what way?" demanded the king.

"By giving them money from your full coffers."

"Nonsense!" again cried the king, this time with real anger; "you have heard what
the Chamberlain said: we always have beggars, and none, as yet, have starved to death.
Besides, I must use the money for the grand ball and tourney next month, as I have
promised the ladies of the court a carnival of unusual magnificence."

The prince did not reply to this, but remained in silent thought, wondering what
he might do to ease the suffering he feared existed on every hand amongst the poor of the
kingdom. He had hoped to persuade the king to assist these beggars, but since the
interview with the officers of the court he had lost heart and despaired of influencing
his royal father in any way.

Suddenly the king spoke.

"Let us dismiss this subject, Lilimond, for it only serves to distress us both,
and no good can come of it. You have nearly made me forget it is your birthday. Now
listen, my son: I am much pleased with you, and thank God that he has given me such a
successor for my crown, for I perceive your mind is as beautiful as your person, and that
you will in time be fitted to rule the land with wisdom and justice. Therefore I promise,
in honor of your birthday, to grant any desire you may express, provided it lies within my
power. Nor will I make any further condition, since I rely on your judgment to select some
gift I may be glad to bestow."

As the king spoke, Lilimond suddenly became impressed with an idea through which
he might succor the poor, and therefore he answered,

"Call in the ladies and gentlemen of the court, my father, and before them all
will I claim your promise."

"Good!" exclaimed the king, who looked for some amusement in his son's request;
and at once he ordered the court to assemble.

The ladies and gentlemen, as they filed into the audience chamber, were astonished
to see the prince seated on the throne beside his sire, but being too well bred to betray
their surprise they only wondered what amusement His Majesty had in store for
them.

When all were assembled, the prince rose to his feet and addressed them.

"His Majesty the king, whose kindness of heart and royal condescension is well
known to you all, hath but now promised me, seeing that it is my birthday, to grant any
one request that I may prefer. Is it not true, Your Majesty?"

"It is true," answered the king, smiling on his son, and pleased to see him
addressing the court so gravely and with so manly an air; "whatsoever the prince may ask,
that will I freely grant."

"Then, oh sire," said the prince, kneeling before the throne, "I ask that for the
period of one day I may reign as king in your stead, having at my command all kingly power
and the obedience of all who owe allegiance to the crown!"

"For a time there was perfect silence in the court, the king growing red with
dismay and embarrassment and the courtiers waiting curiously his reply. Lilimond still
remained kneeling before the throne, and, as the king looked on him he realized it would
be impossible to break his royal word. And the affair promised him amusement after all, so
he quickly decided in what manner to reply.

"Rise, oh prince," he said, cheerfully, "your request is granted. On what day will
it please you to reign?"

Lilimond arose to his feet.

"On the seventh day from this," he answered.

"So be it," returned the king. Then, turning to the royal herald he added, "Make
proclamation throughout the kingdom that on the seventh day from this Prince Lilimond will
reign as king from sunrise till sunset. And whoever dares to disobey his commands will be
guilty of treason and shall be punished with death!"

The court was then dismissed, all wondering at this marvellous decree, and the
prince returned to his own apartment where his tutor, Borland, anxiously awaited
him.

Now this Borland was a man of good heart and much intelligence, but wholly unused
to the ways of the world. He had lately noted, with much grief, the number of beggars who
solicited alms as he walked out with the prince, and he had given freely till his purse
was empty. Then he talked long and earnestly with the prince concerning this shocking
condition in the kingdom, never dreaming that his own generosity had attracted all the
beggars of the city toward him and encouraged them to become more bold than
usual.

Thus was the young and tender-hearted prince brought to a knowledge of all these
beggars, and therefore it was that their condition filled him with sadness and induced him
to speak so boldly to the king, his father.

When he returned to Borland with the tidings that the king had granted him
permission to rule for a day the kingdom, the tutor was overjoyed, and at once they began
to plan ways for relieving all the poor of the country in that one day.

For one thing, they dispatched private messengers to every part of the kingdom,
bidding them tell each beggar they met to come to the prince on that one day he should be
king and he would relieve their wants, giving a broad gold piece to every poor man or
woman who asked.

For the prince had determined to devote to this purpose the gold that filled the
royal coffers; and as for the great ball and tourney the king had planned, why, that could
go begging much better than the starving people.

On the night before the day the prince was to reign there was a great confusion of
noise within the city, for beggars from all parts of the kingdom began to arrive, each one
filled with joy at the prospect of receiving a piece of gold.

There was a continual tramp, tramp of feet, and a great barking of dogs, as all
dogs in those days were trained to bark at every beggar they saw, and now it was difficult
to restrain them.

And the beggars came to town singly and by twos and threes, till hundreds were
there to await the morrow. Some few were very pitiful to behold, being feeble and infirm
from age and disease, dressed in rags and tags, and presenting an appearance of great
distress. But there were many more who were seemingly hearty and vigorous; and these were
the lazy ones, who, not being willing to work, begged for a livelihood.

And some there were dressed in silken hose and velvet gowns, who, forgetting all
shame, and, eager for gold, had been led by the prince's offer to represent themselves as
beggars, that they might add to their wealth without trouble or cost to
themselves.

The next morning, when the sun arose on the eventful day, it found the prince
sitting on the throne of his father, dressed in a robe of ermine and purple, a crown on
his flowing locks and the king's scepter clasped tightly in his little hand. He was
somewhat frightened at the clamor of the crowd without the palace, but Borland, who stood
behind him, whispered,

"The more you can succor the greater will be your glory, and you will live in the
hearts of your people as the kind prince who relieved their sufferings. Be of good cheer,
Your Majesty, for all is well."

Then did the prince command the Treasurer to bring before him the royal coffers,
and to stand ready to present to each beggar a piece of gold. The Treasurer was very
unwilling to do this, but he was under penalty of death if he refused, and so the coffers
were brought forth.

"Your Majesty," said the Treasurer, "if each of those who clamor without is to
receive a piece of gold, there will not be enough within these coffers to go around. Some
will receive and others be denied, since no further store of gold is to be had."

At this news the prince was both puzzled and alarmed.

"What are we to do?" he asked of the tutor; but Borland was unable to suggest a
remedy.

Then said the aged Chamberlain, coming forward, and bowing low before the little
king,

"Your Majesty, I think I can assist you in your difficulty. You did but promise a
piece of gold to those who are really suffering and in need, but so great is the greed of
mankind that many without are in no necessity whatever, but only seek to enrich themselves
at your expense. Therefore I propose you examine carefully each case that presents itself,
and unless the beggar is in need of alms turn him away empty-handed, as being a fraud and
a charlatan."

"Your counsel is wise, oh Chamberlain," replied the prince, after a moment's
thought; "and by turning away the impostors we shall have gold enough for the needy.
Therefore bid the guards to admit the beggars one by one."

When the first beggar came before him the prince asked,

"Are you in need?"

"I am starving, Your Majesty," replied the man, in a whining tone. He was poorly
dressed, but seemed strong and well, and the prince examined him carefully for a moment.
Then he answered the fellow, saying,

"Since you are starving, go and sell the gold ring I see you are wearing on your
finger. I can assist only those who are unable to help themselves."

At this the man turned away muttering angrily, and the courtiers murmured their
approval of the prince's wisdom.

The next beggar was dressed in velvet, and the prince sent him away with a sharp
rebuke. But the third was a woman, old and feeble, and she blessed the prince as she
hobbled joyfully away with a broad gold-piece clasped tightly within her withered
hand.

The next told so pitiful a story that he also received a gold-piece; but as he
turned away the prince saw that beneath his robe his shoes were fastened with silver
buckles, and so he commanded the guards to take away the gold and to punish the man for
attempting to deceive his king.

And so many came to him that were found to be unworthy that he finally bade the
guards proclaim to all who waited that any who should be found undeserving would be beaten
with stripes.

That edict so frightened the imposters that they quickly fled, and only those few
who were actually in want dared to present themselves before the king.

And lo! The task that had seemed too great for one day was performed in a few
hours, and when all the needy had been provided for but one of the royal coffers had been
opened, and that was scarcely empty!

"I have learned, Your Majesty," answered the tutor, "that there is a great
difference between those who beg and those who suffer for lack of bread. For, while all
who needed aid were in truth beggars, not all the beggars needed aid; and hereafter I
shall only give alms to those I know to be honestly in want."

"It is wisely said, my friend," returned the prince, "and I feel I was wrong to
doubt the wisdom of my father's councilors. Go, Borland, and ask the king if he will
graciously attend me here."

The king arrived and bowed smilingly before the prince whom he had set to reign in
his own place, and at once the boy arose and presented his sire with the scepter and
crown, saying,

"Forgive me, oh my king, that I presumed to doubt the wisdom of your rule. For,
though the sun has not yet set, I feel that I am all unworthy to sit in your place, and so
I willingly resign my power to your more skillful hands. And the coffers which I, in my
ignorance, had determined to empty for the benefit of those unworthy, are still nearly
full, and more than enough remains for the expenses of the carnival. Therefore forgive me,
my father, and let me learn wisdom in the future from the justness of your
rule."

Thus ended the reign of Prince Lilimond as king, and not till many years later did
he again ascend the throne on the death of his father.

And really there was not much suffering in the kingdom at any time, as it was a
prosperous country and well governed; for, if you look for beggars in any land you will
find many, but if you look only for the deserving poor there are less, and these all the
more worthy of succor.

I wish all those in power were as kind-hearted as little prince Lilimond, and as
ready to help the needy, for then there would be more light hearts in the world, since it
is "better to give than to receive."

Tom, the Piper's Son

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away he run;
The pig was eat and Tom was beat
And Tom ran crying down the street.

There was not a worse vagabond in Shrewsbury than old Barney the piper. He never
did any work except to play the pipes, and he played so badly that few pennies ever found
their way into his pouch. It was whispered around that old Barney was not very honest, but
he was so sly and cautious that no one had ever caught him in the act of stealing,
although a good many things had been missed after they had fallen into the old man's
way.

Barney had one son, named Tom; and they lived all alone in a little hut away at
the end of the village street, for Tom's mother had died when he was a baby. You may not
suppose that Tom was a very good boy, since he had such a queer father; but neither was he
very bad, and the worst fault he had was in obeying his father's wishes when Barney wanted
him to steal a chicken for their supper or a pot of potatoes for their breakfast. Tom did
not like to steal, but he had no one to teach him to be honest, and so, under his father's
guidance, he fell into bad ways.

One morning

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Was hungry when the day begun;
He wanted a bun and asked for one,
But soon found out that there were none.

"What shall we do?" he asked his father.

"Go hungry," replied Barney, "unless you want to take my pipes and play in the
village. Perhaps they will give you a penny."

"No," answered Tom, shaking his head; "no one will give me a penny for playing;
but Farmer Bowser might give me a penny to stop playing, if I went to his house. He did
last week, you know."

"You'd better try it," said his father; "it's mighty uncomfortable to be
hungry."

So Tom took his father's pipes and walked over the hill to Farmer Bowser's house;
for you must know that

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Learned to play when he was young;
But the only tune that he could play
Was "Over the hills and far away."

And he played this one tune as badly as his father himself played, so that the
people were annoyed when they heard him, and often begged him to stop.

When he came to Farmer Bowser's house, Tom started up the pipes and began to play
with all his might. The farmer was in his woodshed, sawing wood, so he did not hear the
pipes; and the farmer's wife was deaf, and could not hear them. But a little pig that had
strayed around in front of the house heard the noise, and ran away in great fear to the
pigsty.

Then, as Tom saw the playing did no good, he thought he would sing also, and
therefore he began bawling, at the top of his voice

"Over the hills, not a great ways off,

The woodchuck died with the whooping-cough!"

The farmer had stopped sawing to rest, just then; and when he heard the singing he
rushed out of the shed, and chased Tom away with a big stick of wood. The boy went back to
his father, and said, sorrowfully, for he was more hungry than before,

"The farmer gave me nothing but a scolding; but there was a very nice pig running
around the yard."

"How big was it?" asked Barney.

"Oh, just about big enough to make a nice dinner for you and me."

The piper slowly shook his head;
"'T is long since I on pig have fed,
And though I feel it's wrong to steal,
Roast pig is very nice," he said.

Tom knew very well what he meant by that, so he laid down the pipes, and went back
to the farmer's house.

When he came near he heard the farmer again sawing wood in the woodshed, and so he
went softly up to the pig-sty and reached over and grabbed the little pig by the ears. The
pig squealed, of course, but the farmer was making so much noise himself that he did not
hear it, and in a minute Tom had the pig tucked under his arm and was running back home
with it.

The piper was very glad to see the pig, and said to Tom,

"You are a good son, and the pig is very nice and fat. We shall have a dinner fit
for a king."

It was not long before the piper had the pig killed and cut into pieces and
boiling in the pot. Only the tail was left out, for Tom wanted to make a whistle of it,
and as there was plenty to eat besides the tail his father let him have it.

The piper and his son had a fine dinner that day, and so great was their hunger
that the little pig was all eaten up at one meal!

Then Barney lay down to sleep, and Tom sat on a bench outside the door and began
to make a whistle out of the pig's tail with his pocket-knife.

Now Farmer Bowser, when he had finished sawing the wood, found it was time to feed
the pig, so he took a pail of meal and went to the pigsty. But when he came to the sty
there was no pig to be seen, and he searched all round the place for a good hour without
finding it.

"Piggy, piggy, piggy!" he called, but no piggy came, and then he knew his pig had
been stolen. He was very angry, indeed, for the pig was a great pet, and he had wanted to
keep it till it grew very big.

So he put on his coat and buckled a strap around his waist, and went down to the
village to see if he could find out who had stolen his pig.

Up and down the street he went, and in and out the lanes, but no traces of the pig
could he find anywhere. And that was no great wonder, for the pig was eaten by that time
and its bones picked clean.

Finally the farmer came to the end of the street where the piper lived in his
little hut, and there he saw Tom sitting on a bench and blowing on a whistle made from a
pig's tail.

"Where did you get that tail?" asked the farmer.

"I found it," said naughty Tom, beginning to be frightened.

"Let me see it," demanded the farmer; and when he had looked at it carefully he
cried out,

"This tail belonged to my little pig, for I know very well the curl at the end of
it! Tell me, you rascal, where is the pig?"

Then Tom fell in a tremble, for he knew his wickedness was discovered.

"The pig is eat, your honor," he answered.

The farmer said never a word, but his face grew black with anger, and, unbuckling
the strap that was about his waist, he waved it around his head, and whack! came the strap
over Tom's back.

"Ow, ow!" cried the boy, and started to run down the street.

Whack! whack! fell the strap over his shoulder, for the farmer followed at his
heels half-way down the street, nor did he spare the strap till he had give Tom a good
beating. And Tom was so scared that he never stopped running till he came to the end of
the village, and he bawled lustily the whole way and cried out at every step as if the
farmer was still a his back.

It was dark before he came back to his home, and his father was still asleep; so
Tom crept into the hut and went to bed. But he had received a good lesson and never after
that could the old piper induce him to steal.

When Tom showed by his actions his intention of being honest he soon got a job of
work to do, and before long he was able to earn a living more easily, and a great deal
more honestly, than when he stole the pig to get a dinner and suffered a severe beating as
a punishment.

Tom, Tom, the piper's son
Now with stealing pigs was done,
He'd work all day instead of play,
And dined on tart and currant bun.

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses
And all the king's men
Cannot put Humpty together again.

At the very top of the hay-mow in the barn, the Speckled Hen had made her nest,
and each day for twelve days she had laid in it a pretty white egg. The Speckled Hen had
made her nest in this out-of-the- way place so that no one would come to disturb her, as
it was her intention to sit on the eggs till they were hatched into chickens.

Each day, as she laid her eggs, she would cackle to herself; saying, "This will in
time be a beautiful chick, with soft, fluffy down all over its body and bright little eyes
that will look at the world in amazement. It will be one of my children, and I shall love
it dearly."

She named each egg, as she laid it, by the name she should call it when a chick,
the first one being "Cluckety-Cluck," and the next "Cadaw-Cut," and so on; and when she
came to the twelfth egg she called it "Humpty Dumpty."

This twelfth egg was remarkably big and white and of a very pretty shape, and as
the nest was now so full she laid it quite near the edge. And then the Speckled Hen, after
looking proudly at her work, went off to the barnyard, clucking joyfully, in search of
something to eat.

When she had gone, Cluckety-Cluck, who was in the middle of the nest and the
oldest egg of all, called out, angrily,

"It's getting crowded in this nest; move up there, some of you fellows!" And then
he gave CadawCut, who was above him, a kick.

"I can't move unless the others do; they're crowding me down!" said Cadaw-Cut;
and he kicked the egg next above him. And so they went on kicking one another and rolling
around in the nest till one kicked Humpty Dumpty, and as he lay on the edge of the nest he
was kicked out and rolled down the hay-mow till he came to a stop near the very
bottom.

Humpty did not like this very well, but he was a bright egg for one so young, and
after he had recovered from his shaking up he began to look about to see where he was. The
barn door was open, and he caught a glimpse of trees and hedges, and green grass with a
silvery brook running through it. And he saw the waving grain and the tasselled maize and
the sunshine flooding it all.

The scene was very enticing to the young egg, and Humpty at once resolved to see
something of this great world before going back to the nest.

He began to make his way carefully through the hay, and was getting along fairly
well when he heard a voice say,

"Where are you going?"

Humpty looked around and found he was beside a pretty little nest in which was one
brown egg.

"Did you speak?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the brown egg; "I asked where you were going."

"Who are you?" asked Humpty; "do you belong in our nest?"

"Oh, no!" answered the brown egg; "my name is Coutchie-Coulou, and the Black
Bantam laid me about an hour ago."

"Oh," said Humpty proudly; "I belong to the Speckled Hen myself."

"Do you, indeed!" returned Coutchie-Coulou. "I saw her go by a little while ago,
and she's much bigger than the Black Bantam."

"Yes, and I'm much bigger than you," replied Humpty. "But I'm going out to see
the world, and if you like to go with me I'll take good care of you."

"Isn't it dangerous for eggs to go about all by themselves?" asked Coutchie,
timidly.

"Perhaps so," answered Humpty; "but it's dangerous in the nest, too; my brothers
might have smashed me with their kicking. However, if we are careful we can't come to much
harm; so come along, little one, and I'll look after you."

Coutchie-Coulou gave him her hand while he helped her out of the nest, and
together they crept over the hay till they came to the barn floor. They made for the door
at once, holding each other by the hand, and soon came to the threshold, which appeared
very high to them.

"Then hurry!" said Humpty. "And do not tremble so or you will get yourself all
mixed up; it doesn't improve eggs to shake them. We will jump but take care not to bump
against me or you may break my shell. Now,—one,—two,—three!"

They held each other's hand and jumped, alighting safely in the roadway. Then,
fearing their mothers would see them, Humpty ran as fast as he could go till he and
Coutchie were concealed beneath a rosebush in the garden.

"I'm afraid we're bad eggs," gasped Coutchie, who was somewhat out of
breath.

"Oh, not at all," replied Humpty; "we were laid only this morning, so we are quite
fresh. But now, since we are in the world, we must start out in search of adventure. Here
is a roadway beside us which will lead us somewhere or other; so come along,
Coutchie-Coulou, and do not be afraid."

The brown egg meekly gave him her hand, and together they trotted along the
roadway till they came to a high stone wall, which had sharp spikes on its top. It seemed
to extend for a great distance, and the eggs stopped and looked at it curiously.

"I'd like to see what is behind that wall," said Humpty, "but I don't think we
shall be able to climb over it."

"No, indeed," answered the brown egg, "but just before us I see a little hole in
the wall, near the ground; perhaps we can crawl through that."

They ran to the hole and found it was just large enough to admit them. So they
squeezed through very carefully, in order not to break themselves, and soon came to the
other side.

They were now in a most beautiful garden, with trees and bright-hued flowers in
abundance and pretty fountains that shot their merry sprays far into the air. In the
center of the garden was a great palace, with bright golden turrets and domes, and many
windows that glistened in the sunshine like the sparkle of diamonds.

Richly dressed courtiers and charming ladies strolled through the walks, and
before the palace door were a dozen prancing horses, gaily caparisoned, awaiting their
riders.

It was a scene brilliant enough to fascinate anyone, and the two eggs stood
spellbound while their eyes feasted on the unusual sight.

"See!" whispered Coutchie-Coulou, "there are some birds swimming in the water
yonder. Let us go and look at them, for we also may be birds someday."

"True," answered Humpty, "but we are just as likely to be omelets or angel's-food.
Still, we will have a look at the birds."

So they started to cross the drive on their way to the pond, never noticing that
the king and his courtiers had issued from the palace and were now coming down the drive
riding on their prancing steeds. Just as the eggs were in the middle of the drive the
horses dashed by, and Humpty, greatly alarmed, ran as fast as he could for the
grass.

Then he stopped and looked around, and behold! There was poor Coutchie- Coulou
crushed into a shapeless mass by the hoof of one of the horses, and her golden heart was
spreading itself slowly over the white gravel of the driveway!

Humpty sat down on the grass and wept grievously, for the death of his companion
was a great blow to him. And while he sobbed, a voice said to him,

"What is the matter, little egg?"

Humpty looked up, and saw a beautiful girl bending over him.

"One of the horses has stepped on Coutchie-Coulou," he said; "and now she is dead,
and I have no friend in all the world."

The girl laughed.

"Do not grieve," she said, "for eggs are but short-lived creatures at best, and
Coutchie-Coulou has at least died an honorable death and saved herself from being fried in
a pan or boiled in her own shell. So cheer up, little egg, and I will be your
friend—at least so long as you remain fresh. A stale egg I never could
abide."

"I was laid only this morning," said Humpty, drying his tears, "so you need have
no fear. But do not call me 'little egg,' for I am quite large, as eggs go, and I have a
name of my own."

"What is your name?" asked the princess.

"It is Humpty Dumpty," he answered, proudly. "And now, if you will really be my
friend, pray show me about the grounds, and through the palace; and take care I am not
crushed."

So the princess took Humpty in her arms and walked with him all through the
grounds, letting him see the fountains and the golden fish that swam in their waters, the
beds of lilies and roses, and the pools where the swans floated. Then she took him into
the palace, and showed him all the gorgeous rooms, including the king's own bed-chamber
and the room where stood the great ivory throne.

Humpty sighed with pleasure.

"After this," he said, "I am content to accept any fate that may befall me, for
surely no egg before me ever saw so many beautiful sights."

"That is true," answered the princess; "but now I have one more sight to show you
which will be grander than all the others; for the king will be riding home shortly with
all his horses and men at his back, and I will take you to the gates and let you see them
pass by."

"Thank you," said Humpty.

So she carried him to the gates, and while they awaited the coming of the king the
egg said,

"Put me on the wall, princess, for then I be able to see much better than in your
arms."

"That is a good idea," she answered; "but you must be careful not to
fall."

Then she sat the egg gently on the top of the stone wall, where there was a little
hollow; and Humpty was delighted, for from his elevated perch he could see much better
than the princess herself.

"Here they come!" he cried; and, sure enough, the king came riding along the road
with many courtiers and soldiers and vassals following in his wake, all mounted on the
finest horses the kingdom could afford.

As they came to the gate and entered at a brisk trot, Humpty, forgetting his
dangerous position, leaned eagerly over to look at them. The next instant the princess
heard a sharp crash at her side, and, looking downward, perceived poor Humpty Dumpty, who
lay crushed and mangled among the sharp stones where he had fallen.

The princess sighed, for she had taken quite a fancy to the egg; but she knew it
was impossible to gather it up again or mend the matter in any way, and therefore she
returned thoughtfully to the palace.

Now it happened that on this evening several young men of the kingdom, who were
all of high rank, had determined to ask the king for the hand of the princess; so they
assembled in the throne room and demanded that the king choose which of them was most
worthy to marry his daughter.

The king was in a quandary, for all the suitors were wealthy and powerful, and he
feared that all but the one chosen would become his enemies. Therefore he thought long on
the matter, and at last said,

"Where all are worthy it is difficult to decide which most deserves the hand of
the princess. Therefore I propose to test your wit. The one who shall ask me a riddle I
cannot guess, can marry my daughter."

At this the young men looked thoughtful, and began to devise riddles that his
Majesty should be unable to guess. But the king was a shrewd monarch, and each one of the
riddles presented to him he guessed with ease.

Now there was one amongst the suitors whom the princess herself favored, as was
but natural. He was a slender, fair-haired youth, with dreamy blue eyes and a rosy
complexion, and although he loved the princess dearly he despaired of finding a riddle
that the king could not guess.

But while he stood leaning against the wall the princess approached him and
whispered in his ear a riddle she had just thought of. Instantly his face brightened, and
when the king called, "Now, Master Gracington, it is your turn," he advanced boldly to the
throne.

"Speak your riddle, sir," said the king, gaily; for he thought this youth would
also fail, and that he might therefore keep the princess by his side for a time
longer.

But Master Gracington, with downcast eyes, knelt before the throne and spoke in
this wise:

"This is my riddle, oh king:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king's horses
And all the king's men
Cannot put Humpty together again!"

"Read me that, sire, and you will!"

The king thought earnestly for a long time, and he slapped his head and rubbed his
ears and walked the floor in great strides; but guess the riddle he could not.

"You are a humbug, sir!" he cried out at last; "there is no answer to such a
riddle."

"You are wrong, sire," answered the young man; "Humpty Dumpty was an
egg."

"Why did I not think of that before!" exclaimed the king; but he gave the princess
to the young man to be his bride, and they lived happily together.

And thus did Humpty Dumpty, even in his death, repay the kindness of the fair girl
who had shown him such sights as an egg seldom sees.

The Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children
She didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth
Without any bread,
And whipped them all soundly
And sent them to bed.

A long time ago there lived a woman who had four daughters, and these in time grew
up and married and went to live in different parts of the country. And the woman, after
that, lived all alone, and said to herself, "I have done my duty to the world, and now
shall rest quietly for the balance of my life. When one has raised a family of four
children and has married them all happily, she is surely entitled to pass her remaining
days in peace and comfort."

She lived in a peculiar little house, that looked something like this
picture.

It was not like most of the houses you see, but the old woman had it built
herself, and liked it, and so it did not matter to her how odd it was. It stood on the top
of a little hill, and there was a garden at the back and a pretty green lawn in front,
with white gravel paths and many beds of bright colored flowers.

The old woman was very happy and contented there till one day she received a
letter saying that her daughter Hannah was dead and had sent her family of five children
to their grandmother to be taken care of.

This misfortune ruined all the old woman's dreams of quiet; but the next day the
children arrived—three boys and two girls—and she made the best of it and gave
them the beds her own daughters had once occupied, and her own cot as well; and she made a
bed for herself on the parlour sofa.

The youngsters were like all other children, and got into mischief once in awhile;
but the old woman had much experience with children and managed to keep them in order very
well, while they quickly learned to obey her, and generally did as they were
bid.

But scarcely had she succeeded in getting them settled in their new home when
Margaret, another of her daughters, died, and sent four more children to her mother to be
taken care of.

The old woman scarcely knew where to keep this new flock that had come to her
fold, for the house was already full; but she thought the matter over and finally decided
she must build an addition to her house.

So she hired a carpenter and built what is called a "lean-to" at the right of her
cottage, making it just big enough to accommodate the four new members of her family. When
it was completed her house looked very much as it does in this picture.

She put four little cots in her new part of the house, and then she sighed
contentedly, and said, "Now all the babies are taken care of and will be comfortable till
they grow up." Of course it was much more difficult to manage nine small children than
five; and they often led each other into mischief, so that the flower beds began to be
trampled on and the green grass to be worn under the constant tread of little feet, and
the furniture to show a good many scratches and bruises.

But the old woman went on to look after them, as well as she was able, till Sarah,
her third daughter, also died, and three more children were sent to their grandmother to
be brought up.

The old woman was nearly distracted when she heard of this new addition to her
family, but she did not give way to despair. She sent for the carpenter again, and had him
build another addition to her house, as the picture shows.

Then she put three new cots in the new part for the babies to sleep in, and when
they arrived they were just as cozy and comfortable as peas in a pod.

The grandmother was a lively old woman for one of her years, but she found her
time now fully occupied in cooking the meals for her twelve small grandchildren, and
mending their clothes, and washing their faces, and undressing them at night and dressing
them in the morning. There was just a dozen of babies now, and when you consider they were
about the same age you will realize what a large family the old woman had, and how fully
her time was occupied in caring for them all.

And now, to make the matter worse, her fourth daughter, who had been named
Abigail, suddenly took sick and died, and she also had four small children that must be
cared for in some way.

The old woman, having taken the other twelve, could not well refuse to adopt these
little orphans also.

"I may as well have sixteen as a dozen," she said, with a sigh; "they will drive
me crazy some day, anyhow, so a few more will not matter at all!"

Once more she sent for the carpenter, and bade him build a third addition to the
house; and when it was completed she added four more cots to the dozen that were already
in use. The house presented a very queer appearance now, but she did not mind that so long
as the babies were comfortable.

"I shall not have to build again," she said; "and that is one satisfaction. I have
now no more daughters to die and leave me their children, and therefore I must make up my
mind to do the best I can with the sixteen that have already been inflicted on me in my
old age."

It was not long before all the grass about the house was trodden down, and the
white gravel of the walks all thrown at the birds, and the flower beds trampled into
shapeless masses by thirty-two little feet that ran about from morn till night. But the
old woman did not complain at this; her time was too much taken up with the babies for her
to miss the grass and the flowers.

It cost so much money to clothe them that she decided to dress them all alike, so
that they looked like the children of a regular orphan asylum. And it cost so much to feed
them that she was obliged to give them the plainest food; so there was bread-and-milk for
breakfast and milk-and-bread for dinner and bread- and-broth for supper. But it was a good
and wholesome diet, and the children thrived and grew fat on it.

One day a stranger came along the road, and when he saw the old woman's house he
began to laugh.

"What are you laughing at, sir?" asked the grandmother, who was sitting on her
doorsteps engaged in mending sixteen pairs of stockings.

"At your house," the stranger replied; "it looks for all the world like a big
shoe!"

"A shoe!" she said, in surprise.

"Why, yes. The chimneys are shoe-straps, and the steps are the heel, and all
those additions make the foot of the shoe."

"Never mind," said the woman; "it may be a shoe, but it is full of babies, and
that makes it differ from most other shoes."

But the Stranger went on to the village and told all he met that he had seen an
old woman who lived in a shoe; and soon people came from all parts of the country to look
at the queer house, and they usually went away laughing.

The old woman did not mind this at all; she was too busy to be angry. Some of the
children were always getting bumped heads or bruised shins, or falling down and hurting
themselves, and these had to be comforted. And some were naughty and had to be whipped;
and some were dirty and had to be washed; and some were good and had to be kissed. It was
"Gran'ma, do this!" and "Gran'ma, do that!" from morning to night, so that the poor
grandmother was nearly distracted. The only peace she ever got was when they were all
safely tucked in their little cots and were sound asleep; for then, at least, she was free
from worry and had a chance to gather her scattered wits.

"There are so many children," she said one day to the baker-man, "that I often
really don't know what to do!"

"If they were mine, ma'am," he replied, "I'd send them to the poor-house, or else
they'd send me to the madhouse."

Some of the children heard him say this, and they resolved to play him a trick in
return for his ill-natured speech.

The baker-man came every day to the shoe-house, and brought two great baskets of
bread in his arms for the children to eat with their milk and their broth.

So one day, when the old woman had gone to the town to buy shoes, the children all
painted their faces, to look as Indians do when they are on the warpath; and they caught
the roosters and the turkey-cock and pulled feathers from their tails to stick in their
hair. And then the boys made wooden tomahawks for the girls and bows-and-arrows for their
own use, and then all sixteen went out and hid in the bushes near the top of the
hill.

By and by the baker-man came slowly up the path with a basket of bread on either
arm; and just as he reached the bushes there sounded in his ears a most unearthly
war-whoop. Then a flight of arrows came from the bushes, and although they were blunt and
could do him no harm they rattled all over his body; and one hit his nose, and another his
chin, while several stuck fast in the loaves of bread.

Altogether, the baker-man was terribly frightened; and when all the sixteen small
Indians rushed from the bushes and flourished their tomahawks, he took to his heels and
ran down the hill as fast as he could go!

When the grandmother returned she asked,

"Where is the bread for your supper?"

The children looked at one another in surprise, for they had forgotten all about
the bread. And then one of them confessed, and told her the whole story of how they had
frightened the baker-man for saying he would send them to the poor-house.

"You are sixteen very naughty children!" exclaimed the old woman; "and for
punishment you must eat your broth without any bread, and afterwards each one shall have a
sound whipping and be sent to bed."

Then all the children began to cry at once, and there was such an uproar that
their grandmother had to put cotton in her ears that she might not lose her
hearing.

But she kept her promise, and made them eat their broth without any bread; for,
indeed, there was no bread to give them.

Then she stood them in a row and undressed them, and as she put the nightdress on
each one she gave it a sound whipping and sent it to bed.

They cried some, of course, but they knew very well they deserved the punishment,
and it was not long before all of them were sound asleep.

They took care not to play any more tricks on the baker-man, and as they grew
older they were naturally much better behaved.

Before many years the boys were old enough to work for the neighboring farmers,
and that made the woman's family a good deal smaller. And then the girls grew up and
married, and found homes of their own, so that all the children were in time well provided
for.

But not one of them forgot the kind grandmother who had taken such good care of
them, and often they tell their children of the days when they lived with the old woman in
a shoe and frightened the baker-man almost into fits with their wooden tomahawks.

Little Miss Muffet

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey.
There came a great spider
And sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.

Little Miss Muffet's father was a big banker in a big city, and he had so much
money that the house he lived in was almost as beautiful as a king's palace. It was built
of granite and marble, and richly furnished with every luxury that money can buy. There
was an army of servants about the house, and many of them had no other duties than to wait
on Miss Muffet, for the little girl was an only child and therefore a personage of great
importance. She had a maid to dress her hair and a maid to bathe her, a maid to serve her
at a table and a maid to tie her shoe-strings, and several maids beside And then there was
Nurse Holloweg to look after all the maids and see they did their tasks
properly.

The child's father spent his days at his office and his evenings at his club; her
mother was a leader in society, and therefore fully engaged from morning till night and
from night till morn; so that Little Miss Muffet seldom saw her parents and scarce knew
them when she did see them.

I have never known by what name she was christened. Perhaps she did not know
herself, for everyone had called her "Miss Muffet" since she could remember. The servants
spoke of her respectfully as Miss Muffet. Mrs. Muffet would say, at times, "By the way,
Nurse, how is Miss Muffet getting along?" And Mr. Muffet, when he met his little daughter
by chance on the walk or in the hallway, would stop and look at her gravely and say, "So
this is Miss Muffet. Well, how are you feeling, little one?" And then, without heeding her
answer, he would walk away.

Perhaps you think that Miss Muffet, surrounded by every luxury and with a dozen
servants to wait on her, was happy and contented; but such was not the case. She wanted to
run and romp, but they told her it was unladylike; she wished to play with other children,
but none were rich enough to be proper associates for her; she longed to dig in the dirt
in the garden, but Nurse Holloweg was shocked at the very thought. So Miss Muffet became
sullen and irritable, and scolded everyone about her, and lived a very unhappy life. And
her food was too rich and gave her dyspepsia, so that she grew thin and pale and did not
sleep well at night.

One afternoon her mother, who happened to be at home for an hour, suddenly thought
of her little daughter; so she rang the bell and asked for Nurse Holloweg.

"How is Miss Muffet, Nurse?" asked the lady.

"Very badly, ma'am," was the reply.

"Badly! What do you mean? Is she ill?"

"She's far from well, ma'am," answered the Nurse, "and seems to be getting worse
every day."

"Well," replied the lady; "you must have the doctor to see her; and don't forget
to let me know what he says. That is all, Nurse."

She turned to her novel again, and the Nurse walked away and sent a servant for
the doctor. That great man, when he came, shook his head solemnly and said,

"She must have a change. Take her away into the country as soon as
possible."

"And very good advice it was, too," remarked the Nurse to one of the maids; "for I
feel as if I needed a change myself."

When she reported the matter to Mrs. Muffet the mother answered,

"Very well; I will see Mr. Muffet and have him write out a cheque."

And so it was that a week later Little Miss Muffet went to the country, or rather
to a small town where there was a summer hotel that had been highly recommended to Nurse
Holloweg; and with her went the string of maids and a wagon-load of boxes and
trunks.

The morning after their arrival the little girl asked to go out on the
lawn.

"Well," replied Nurse Holloweg, "Sarah can take you out for half an hour. But
remember you are not to run and get heated, for that will ruin your complexion; and you
must not speak to any of the common children you meet, for your mother would object; and
you must not get your shoes dusty nor your dress soiled, nor disobey Sarah in any
way."

Little Miss Muffet went out in a very angry and sulky mood.

"What's the use of being in the country," she thought, "if I must act just as I
did in the city? I hate Nurse Holloweg, and Sarah, and all the rest of them! and if I
dared I'd just—just run away."

Indeed, a few minutes later, when Sarah had fallen asleep on a bench under a big
shade tree, Miss Muffet decided she would really run away for once in her life, and see
how it seemed.

There was a pretty lane near by, running between shady trees far out into the
country, and, stealing softly away from Sarah's side, the little girl ran as fast as she
could go, and never stopped till she was all out of breath.

While she rested and wondered what she could do next, a farmer came along, driving
an empty cart.

"I'll catch on behind," said Miss Muffet, gleefully, "just as I've seen the boys
do in the city. Won't it be fun!"

So she ran and caught on the end of the cart, and actually climbed into it,
falling all in a heap on the straw that lay on the bottom. But it didn't hurt her at all,
and the next minute the farmer whipped up his horses, and they went trotting along the
lane, carrying Miss Muffet farther and farther away from hated Nurse Holloweg and the
dreadful maids.

She looked around on the green fields and the waving grain, and drew in deep
breaths of the fresh country air, and was happy for almost the first time in her little
life. By and by she lay back on the straw and fell asleep; and the farmer, who did not
know she was in his cart, drove on for many miles, till at last he stopped at a small
wooden farmhouse, and jumped to the ground.

A woman came to the door to greet him, and he said to her.

"Well, mother, we're home again, you see."

"So I see," she answered; "but did you bring my groceries?"

"Yes," he replied, as he began to unharness the horses; "they are in the
cart."

So she came to the cart and looked within, and saw Miss Muffet, who was still
asleep.

"Where did you get the little girl?" asked the farmer's wife, in
surprise.

"What little girl?" asked he.

"The one in the cart."

He came to the cart and looked in, and was as surprised as his wife.

"She must have climbed into the cart when I left the town," he said; "but waken
her, wife, and we will hear what she has to say."

So the farmer's wife shook the girl by the arm, and Miss Muffet sat up in the cart
and rubbed her eyes and wondered where she was.

"How came you in my cart?" asked the farmer.

"I caught on behind, and climbed in," answered the girl.

"What is your name, and where do you live?" asked the farmer's wife.

"My name is Miss Muffet, and I live in a big city,—but where, I do not
know."

And that was all she could tell them, so the woman said at last,

"We must keep her till some one comes to claim her, and she can earn her living by
helping me make the cheeses."

"That will be nice," said Miss Muffet, with a laugh, "for Nurse Holloweg never
lets me do anything, and I should like to help somebody do something."

So they led her into the house, where the farmer's wife wondered at the fine
texture of her dress and admired the golden chain that hung around her neck.

"Some one will surely come for her," the woman said to her husband, "for she is
richly dressed and must belong to a family of some importance."

Nevertheless, when they had eaten dinner, for which Little Miss Muffet had a
wonderful appetite, the woman took her into the dairy and told her how she could assist
her in curdling the milk and preparing it for the cheese-press.

"Why, it's really fun to work," said the girl, at first, "and I should like to
live here always. I do hope Nurse Holloweg will not find me."

After a time, however, she grew weary, and wanted to rest; but the woman had not
yet finished her cheese-making, so she bade the girl keep at her tasks.

"It's time enough to rest when the work is done," she said, "and if you stay with
me you must earn your board. No one is allowed to idle in this house."

So Little Miss Muffet, though she felt like crying and was very tired, kept at her
work till at length all was finished and the last cheese was in the press.

"Now," said the farmer's wife, "since you have worked so well I shall give you a
dish of curds and whey for your supper, and you may go out into the orchard and eat it
under the shade of the trees."

Little Miss Muffet had never eaten curds and whey before, and did not know how
they tasted; but she was very hungry, so she took the dish and went into the
orchard.

She first looked around for a place to sit down, and finally discovered a little
grassy mound, which is called a tuffet in the country, and seated herself on it. Then she
tasted the curds and whey and found them very good.

But while she was eating she chanced to look down at her feet, and there was a
great black spider coming straight towards her. The girl had never seen such an enormous
and hideous-looking spider before, and she was so frightened that she gave a scream and
tipped backward off the tuffet, spilling the curds and whey all over her dress as she did
so. This frightened her more than ever, and as soon as she could get on her feet she
scampered away to the farmhouse as fast as she could go, crying bitterly as she
ran.

The farmer's wife tried to comfort her, and Miss Muffet, between her sobs, said
she had seen "the awfulest, biggest, blackest spider in all the world!"

This made the woman laugh, for she was not afraid of spiders.

Soon after they heard a sound of wheels on the road and a handsome carriage came
dashing up to the gate.

"Has anyone seen a little girl who has run away?" asked Nurse Holloweg, leaning
out of the carriage.

"Oh, yes" answered Little Miss Muffet; "here I am, Nurse. And she ran out and
jumped into the carriage, for she was very glad to get back again to those who would care
for her and not ask her to work making cheeses."

When they were driving back to the town the Nurse said,

"You must promise me, Miss Muffet, never to run away again. You have frightened
me nearly into hysterics, and had you been lost your mother would have been quite
disappointed."

The little girl was silent for a time; then she answered,

"I will promise not to run away if you will let me play as other children do. But
if you do not allow me to run and romp and dig in the ground, I shall keep running away,
no matter how many horrid spiders come to frighten me!"

And Nurse Holloweg, who had really been much alarmed at so nearly losing her
precious charge, thought it wise to agree to Miss Muffet's terms.

She kept her word, too, and when Little Miss Muffet went back to her home in the
city her cheeks were as red as roses and her eyes sparkled with health. And she grew, in
time, to be a beautiful young lady, and as healthy and robust as she was beautiful. Seeing
which, the doctor put an extra large fee in his bill for advising that the little girl be
taken to the country; and Mr. Muffet paid it without a word of protest.

Even after Miss Muffet grew up and was married she never forgot the day that she
ran away, nor the curds and whey she ate for her supper, nor the great spider that
frightened her away from the tuffet.